


Stars and Hearts

by Rehfan



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Frottage, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Longing, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Marking, Neglect, Rimming, epistolary (in part), weekend hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Frobisher and Rufus Sixsmith meet at a club and spend the weekend together.<br/>They weren't expecting to fall in love.<br/>Robert leaves to follow a dream and writes to Sixsmith.<br/>But Rufus doesn't want to wait around for a ghost forever.</p><p> </p><p>Inspired by this gifset: http://sixsmithyouass.tumblr.com/post/85443615917</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions and a Purple Ashtray

**Author's Note:**

> The song in the club, the look of the club, and Frobisher's dancing (only slightly more restrained) is based off of this video:
> 
> "Real" by Years and Years
> 
> http://youtu.be/H3T2RnTBp_4

He muffled the dim sunlight with a turn of his body and backed into the warmth behind him. The pressure of an arm fell about his waist and his dream of a futuristic café continued. Every server looked the same and there was blue everywhere. It was like dining in the sky.

The café walls shook violently when the pounding began. _Bam! Bam! Bam!_ The servers were angry: “You let me in right now, Robert! You fucking let me in you fucking coward!”

_Who in the hell was Robert?_

_Bam! Bam! BAM!_ Something moved behind him and shifted him away from his dream. The servers were replaced by a single hula girl statuette on a bedside table that was also covered in a hodge-podge of old hardcover books, a half-full ashtray made of purple glass, and three Christmas balls in a wicker bowl shining red, blue, and green. Its sole drawer was missing, having been pulled out of its housing the night before. The lamp that sat among the detritus was a thrift shop nightmare: brown ceramic base of a smiling Buddha and the shade a beaded affair born in 1977. The beads swung and shook as the door opened and slammed against the bookshelf behind it.

In the doorway was a female Rufus didn’t recognize. But she knew Robert, who had retreated back to the bed to retrieve his pants. “I knew it! I knew you had a woman in here, you fucking arsehole!”

Rufus sat up on his elbow and regarded her. No doubt his tousled hair on the pillow and half his face hidden by the duvet had created a bit of confusion. He saw that he had cleared it up the moment the duvet fell away to reveal his decidedly un-female form.

“You- You… Oh my god.” Her accusatory finger had been raised since she gained access to the room, but faltered when she realized her grievous error. Her eyes tore themselves from Rufus and fell again on Robert who was leaning against the bedpost and lighting a cigarette, seemingly unfazed.

“What the fuck?” she managed.

Robert blew out a cloud of smoke and regarded her with concern. “Something wrong, love?”

“You have a man in here,” she said.

“Full marks for you, my girl,” said Robert. “Would you like to try for double or quits in the next round?” He took a long drag and Rufus couldn’t help but smile at him. He just really didn’t give a fuck.

“You’re gay?” said the girl, clearly still missing the plot.

“Oh! So close!” said Robert. “Too bad, really.”

The look of despair and confusion on her face was heartbreaking to Rufus but he didn’t say a word.

“You sick freak. I’m done,” she said. She threw something hard to the carpet, backed out of the room, and disappeared. After a moment another door slammed shut and Robert walked coolly to the door, giving the hallway a glance.

Satisfied that she was gone, Robert turned to pick up the item she threw. It was a key. He placed it on the table near the bowl of Christmas ornaments and said: “So… coffee?”

“Sure,” said Rufus. He blinked as Robert removed himself from the room in a haze of cigarette smoke and returned several minutes later with a steaming cup in his hand and two shot glasses: one containing milk, the other with sugar.

“Don’t have a proper tea service. Sorry,” he said as he nudged the books aside on the bedside table. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and regarded Rufus. “You look gorgeous in the morning.”

Rufus smiled. “Thank you,” he replied and took a sip of the coffee, black. “Who was that woman?”

“Oh her?” said Robert, glancing at the door. He scratched his head. “Girlfriend. Well…ex now, I suppose.” His hands rested on his hips and he turned back toward Rufus. “I’m for a shower. Just be a tick.” He turned to make for the door opposite the wall the bed was situated against.

Before he reached the threshold, Rufus asked: “You’re bisexual?”

Robert didn’t turn to answer. “Does it really matter?” He entered the bathroom and dropped his pants to the floor in the doorway. Rufus supposed it didn’t.

 

~080~

 

The club was a new one for Rufus. He had finalized the divorce from his wife eight months before and friends had been urging him to get on with his life. He had bogged himself down with formulae and chemical equations, but nothing brought him joy anymore. Sarai had sullied their marriage with another and it had hollowed him out. They had had a child together, after all. She was supposed to give a shit; he had. But the damage was done and the betrayal overwhelmed him. His brain divorced his heart from his soul as amicably and with as much finality as their divorce decree had. He was rendered useless by it.

It wasn’t just the betrayal that left him cold; it was everything. This had become his life and yet – it wasn’t his anymore. He simply wasn’t able to _feel_.

The tedium of his everyday schedule hadn’t helped either. He had thought that routine would relieve him from thinking. Unfortunately, it worked a little too well; it rendered him inert. He woke, showered, dressed, ate, worked, ate, worked, ate, worked some more, went to bed, and repeated it all over and over. Occasionally someone would drag him to the pub. Other times he would force march himself around St. Andrew’s Square and out to the Scott Monument and back, but nothing seemed to help. He found the weather to be neither dreary nor bracing. He found his work to be neither challenging nor facile. Everything was just incredibly ordinary.

He saw faces but not features as he passed people in the street, as though he were a ghost in his own existence and they were the populace of a simulation of what real life was meant to be. It was so untenable. He felt stifled and dead.

He didn’t see his daughter much; she had gone with her mother and they were in London. He couldn’t dream of getting away even though his superiors wanted him to. He needed the work. He didn’t have anything else. Even his daughter didn’t need him.

Eventually it got to the point that he caught himself staring at the Bank of Scotland and wondering how difficult it would be to rob it blind, saying to himself that with the right chemical bomb, one could smoke up the room, render the staff unconscious, and all the things one would need in order to take what he wanted and not give a shit about the little old nan whose life savings was wrapped up in the cash at that particular branch. But where had that thought come from? Was it really him standing there, rainwater soaking his hair and dripping down his nose as he tried to mentally commit a crime?

It had upset him so much that he had bought a hat at Jenners and went home, rain dripping from the brim of his new trilby. By the time the next weekend rolled around, the criminal thought was still in his brain like a beggar who wouldn’t stop pestering him. It was stupid, asinine. It upset him all over again. It had, in fact, upset him so much that he had gone to that club.

The music was much too loud for his taste. The room was too dark for his taste as well, but then, that’s what people wanted: to be rendered deaf and blind to whomever they had chosen to take home. Rufus had always been picky when it had come to companions. He was picky when he had chosen Sarai to marry. She had never led him to believe that she was the cheating type - right up until he actually caught her, of course. He had prided himself on his ability to judge character and he had pronounced her superior. It was an even bigger blow to his ego when he found out later that she had been cheating on him for months. She was an excellent actress, it seemed.

Rufus was determined to not be fooled again. He was convinced that he would never marry, never commit his heart again to anyone, never ever fall in love. And so, he had come to the club. A friend of a friend had recommended it and, as he walked from the bar, his fourth beer to his lips, he searched the crowd to make sure that friend of a friend hadn’t also chosen that night to attend. There were no familiar faces.

All the women looked occupied, most of them ensconced with their friends all together in a tight gaggle of low necklines, high hemlines, and the occasional group giggle. It was intimidating when he was a younger man, and if he was honest, groups of women scared the life out of him now too. There was no way he could approach them. And those that were seated alone were absorbed in their phones. He felt guilty for intruding on the decidedly “fuck off” body language, but he had to do something. He walked over to a curly-headed brunette who was texting at lightning speed into a pink phone and sat gingerly at the end of the curved booth she occupied. She never looked up.

He didn’t want to stare, but she had a lip ring. Sarai had never followed that trend and he didn’t know if it would hurt her to kiss with it. He supposed not. Best not to ask her anyway as it might prove to be a rude question. He looked about the room in his desperation to come up with a good ice-breaker and felt the man staring at him before he had even made eye contact.

The music began with an ethereal mix of sound. A dulcet male voice came over the speakers as the thumping rhythm began and the thin man with the mop of black hair who had stared at him from the middle of the dance floor began to move. He closed his eyes and let the rhythm take him as the singer sang:

_I broke my bones playing games with you_

_This type of fun it makes me blue_

_Oh I – I think I’m into you_

_How much do you want me too?_

_What are you prepared to do?_

_Think I’m gonna make it worse_

_I talk to you but it don’t work_

_I touch you but it starts to hurt_

_What have I been doing wrong?_

_Oh tell me what it is you want…_

His movements weren’t typical. His lithe body splayed out this way and that, never losing the rhythm and becoming more and more frenzied as the music built up, melody rising higher as the singer sang of being tormented by an object of one’s desire. Rufus Sixsmith was enraptured. The singer repeated what his heart had begun to wonder:

_“Oh tell me what it is you want Oh tell me what it is you want Oh tell me what it is you want.”_

 

~080~

 

 

He lay across the bottom of the bed draped in nothing but a towel and Rufus watched him in the dimmest light of the dawn. The purple glass ashtray was resting on his stomach as he smoked yet another cig. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?” asked Rufus.

“Would you have come home with me if I had?” asked Robert.

“Probably not,” said Rufus, thinking of Sarai.

“Then I was wise not to volunteer that information,” he replied with another quiet puff, blowing smoke to the ceiling. “It was pretty much over anyway. This was just the last of it.”

“She seemed pretty invested,” said Rufus, thinking of himself.

“Not so much,” said Robert. “She’s been shagging her ex since before we got together. She’s just as fucked up as I am, I suppose.”

“You’re not fucked up,” said Rufus.

“Aren’t I? How are you an authority? You’ve known me for a collection of hours, erm- See! I can’t even recall your name! Why should I take comfort from your words? I bet you don’t remember my name either.”

“You’re Robert and I’m Rufus,” said Rufus quietly. He sat up straighter in the bed and stuffed a pillow behind his head.

Robert let out a bark of laughter. “Rufus!” he said. “Rufus? Christ! Did your parents want you to get your head bashed in before you were twenty? Who would dare look at such a glorious creature as you and bestow upon him such an inglorious name?”

“Oh shut up and give us a fag, will you?” asked Rufus. He passed him a cigarette and the lighter. “What do you do for a living, Robert?” he asked around lighting his smoke.

“I teach music,” he said.

“Bollocks,” said Rufus.

“Well, no,” said Robert, blushing slightly. “But I feel as if I do. I’m the father of a computer program that helps composers write music. So, in a way, I teach computers music.” He turned his head toward Rufus. “And what does a man named Rufus, who managed to somehow survive his childhood unscathed and unscarred despite his unfortunate moniker, do for a living?”

“I’m a chemist,” said Rufus.

“Seriously?” asked Robert. He stubbed out his cigarette and handed the ashtray over to Rufus. He rolled over, exposing one well-turned arse cheek and the long line of his back, his fringe falling in his eyes. “Like at a Boots… or do you work for the government?”

“The government, I suppose,” said Rufus. “My lab is under government contract.”

Robert let a dreamy smile play over his lips. “A G-man,” he mused. “I got fucked by a G-man last night.”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

“You hardly fucked me?” asked Robert. “You mean I’ve been gypped?” He sat up on his left hip, the towel fallen uselessly to the bed, and mockingly protested: “You’ve got to be joking! How dare you cheat me, you bastard!” Rufus couldn’t help but laugh as Robert continued: “I demand a proper fucking, right now! You son of a bitch! I pay my taxes! I won’t be cheated out of a proper screw from the government! Come on, you fucker, fuck me properly!”

Rufus chuckled. He stubbed out his cigarette and set the ashtray aside. “If you insist,” he remarked warningly, “but I’ll be asking for double time and a half… and it’ll come out of your taxes.”


	2. Dancing and Darkness

“Did you want to dance?” he asked.

His fringe was in his eyes and normally Rufus wouldn’t have even considered it because who wants to dance with a stranger you can barely make eye contact with, and more than that he was a man, but he had had a few beers and what the hell? Who was it really hurting? And it was just a dance after all. He came to the club to loosen up, so why wasn’t he getting to it?

“Sure,” he said and they made their way to the dance floor where no one seemed to mind. The next song was popular and of faster tempo and Rufus still found himself mesmerized by the bouncing, gyrating human in front of him. He had closed his eyes again and when his head tilted up, Rufus could see a thin face, not unattractive, dominated by the eyes and lips. There was a small mole on his lip and he wondered how many men had kissed it.

His hair was a living thing: sleek, black, careening this way and that as his head bobbed about to the music. He still hadn’t opened his eyes and as Rufus shuffled to and fro to the music with much less abandon than his counterpart, he felt that he could have just walked away with him none the wiser; the man could still be dancing alone and never notice Rufus was simply gone. Eye contact was important; it was the connection.

The song ended and moved into something slower with a backbeat containing sinuous undulation. The man changed his body language entirely as Rufus watched. He discontinued the splaying of his limbs, brought everything close, even touching himself (chest, hair, face, hip) and his eyes opened to see an expression on Rufus’ face that made him smile. It was a beguiling smile.

“See something you fancy?” he asked. He danced closely, arms at his sides, swaying like a serpent.

An impotent sound of stuttered confusion came from betwixt his lips and the beguiling smile grew wider. Rufus cleared his throat. “What’s your name?” he managed.

“Robert,” he said, swaying. “You?”

“Rufus,” he said, but he didn’t think the man heard because he turned his body around and pressed his back up against Rufus’ chest.

Robert took Rufus’ hands and placed them gently on his hips. “Copy me,” he said and pushed his arse right into Rufus’ groin, eliciting a huff of startled breath from Rufus and causing him to blush profusely. This dance was the single most intimate thing he had ever done with a man - aside from the countless times he stood next to someone in the next stall while urinating. Robert laid his head back against Rufus’ shoulder and swayed deeply, bending his knees. Their hips worked in tandem pendulously and Rufus felt himself relax into the motion, cradling this stranger and wishing his advances were from someone he knew better so that he felt he could kiss the neck that was right under his mouth. A light cologne, clean, with a hint of vanilla, came into his nose and he brought his head back a bit away from the intrusive and inappropriate temptation to find out if Robert tasted as good as he smelled, but it was all in vain. As his head came back, he was forced eye-to-eye with Robert who, through dark fringe, was peering at him, watching him like a hunter.

He felt Robert’s hands reach back and hold his hips. His stuttered breath was in Robert’s ear and their eyes were fixed, one on the other. Slowly Robert turned his head to face Rufus more squarely, placing their lips centimeters apart. Rufus closed his eyes and just _felt_ : the pressure and heat of him, the scent of his body and breath, the moisture of his mouth palpable along his lips, his careful breath as they held themselves together and Rufus’ cock twitched and filled with want.

The song was over. The bodies that had crowded the floor began to disperse as others joined the swaying fray. Robert removed himself from the shell of Rufus’ body and smiled sweetly: “Thanks,” he said and walked away leaving Rufus on the dance floor awkward and alone.

 

~080~

 

He blinked in the sunlight. It was late morning and Robert was walking quickly down the concrete, a puff of smoke trailing in his wake. Rufus ran to catch up. “Where are you off to?” he said.

“Work,” said Robert.

“But it’s Saturday,” said Rufus.

“True,” said Robert. “But I’ve miles to go before I sleep.”

“But you’re a computer programmer,” reasoned Rufus. “What need is there to work on the weekend?”

Robert stopped in his tracks and faced Rufus who jumped back at the sudden action. “Who are you to me anyhow?”

“What?” asked Rufus.

“You’re a bloke I took home from a club,” said Robert. “By all rights I should be rid of you by now. In fact, you probably should have left last night, but I’m soft-hearted and didn’t kick you out. It’s a shortcoming. I’m working on it. No matter.” He squared his shoulders and added: “It’s over now. You can go, Rufus… whoeveryouare.” He walked away, striding purposefully.

“Sixsmith,” offered Rufus.

“What?” replied Robert. He turned on his heel and made his way back to where Rufus stood like a kicked puppy.

“My last name,” he said. “It’s Sixsmith.”

“Jesus wept, but your parents hated you,” he said.

Rufus ignored him. He had a more pressing question on his mind. “I know it’s not done in your world,” said Rufus, kicking himself for the begging tone in his voice, “but could I see you again?”

Robert narrowed his eyes and took one last drag from his cigarette. He dropped it to the ground and squashed it, exhaling. He regarded Rufus with his hands in his pockets for some time before replying: “What is it about you, Rufus Sixsmith, that I find so fucking attractive? I have no idea why I’m doing this – it is against my better judgment – but I’ll have a late lunch with you. Will that do?”

Rufus beamed. He couldn’t help it. “That’ll be wonderful,” he said.

Robert nodded and walked away. He only got a few yards from him when he turned and called: “Scott Monument at half two. And I’ve decided to call you Sixsmith. Rufus is just too unbearable.”

 

~080~

 

Rufus walked back to the bar grateful for the noise and the darkness in the club as his semi was pressing into his jeans uncomfortably. He ordered another beer and tried to forget what had just happened between Robert and him. There was a mirror behind the bartender, beyond the booze, a leftover nod to a relic from the days of yore where no man dared turn his back on the door of any room for an enemy might sneak up from behind and shoot him dead. And in the glass, there he was again, the flitting lithe seducer. He was leaning over a table occupied by two men and was chatting amiably.

Rufus felt the welling up of his anger as he watched Robert casually laughing, pressing a hand to his stomach that he knew smelled so fucking delicious. But he couldn’t even think of turning the tables on such a one as Robert. This was his milieu, not Rufus’. Clearly he was at home here.

But for Rufus, there was no going back. What was he going to do anyway? Go home and sit in the quiet of his flat and wait for the weekend to pass him by all the while knowing that this elusive creature made of vanilla and electricity was out there, mocking him simply by existing?

But how could he compete? Lowering his eyes to his pint, he felt despair wash over him. He was barely a man according to Sarai: unworthy of love, incapable of decision, wholly unable to be strong like all the other men in the world. She had said that to his face during their last dust-up. It had been a while since then, but the poison in her tone never faded or failed to break him down.

He glanced back up at him. Robert, for all his apparent 10-stone weakness, was even stronger than Rufus could be as he was now dancing with both men, all of them smiling and exchanging small touches that spoke of sexual openness and familiarity. Despair was replaced with envy and, in the next moment, envy was supplanted by anger. Rufus finished his pint and turned, facing his quarry.

Fuck it, he thought. I want him and I mean to have him.

He was in the middle of the floor and between the two other men before he knew it, pulling Robert close by the hips and pressing his forehead to his. Robert was startled for a moment and then his ruby lips formed a thin line. He pushed Rufus’ hands away and stood still amidst the undulating dancers. Rufus glanced to either side of him, but the two men looked to each other and then to Robert, but eventually moved away.

Their stillness was juxtaposed by the mania around them: bodies, lights, smoke, air – all moved save the two men in the middle of the dance floor. No one interrupted them. No one stepped forward. No one intruded. And for those brief few moments among that vivid cacophony, Robert really saw Rufus. He didn’t see him as a plaything; he saw him as a person. His face told Rufus everything.

A small crinkle appeared between his brows and his lips dropped into an “oh” of awareness. His eyes held confusion and his body was tense as though he were going to fly away if Rufus flinched, like some beautiful wild beast who had stumbled upon a campsite and had frozen in place out of instinct. Rufus was at a loss as to how to break the spell without startling him into running and because of that fear he really didn’t want to break it at all because it was all so perfect, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane.

But then the moment was gone. Robert blinked and forced himself out of his trance as the music shifted again to a slow steady rhythm with a gentle melody, perfect for lovers. Robert swayed in his steps toward Rufus but this time there was no seduction to his gait. He seemed awestruck and his gaze never fell away from Rufus’ eyes. A warm body pressed up against Rufus’, hands gliding up his arms and wrapping themselves around his shoulders. Robert pressed his cheek to his and they began to rock back and forth like a ship at sea, each shift of weight as primal as the ocean itself.

“I should be angry with you,” said Robert. Rufus blushed with shame. He shouldn’t have reached out and touched without permission. But it wasn’t fair how cavalier Robert could be, how insensitive.

Automatically, automatonically, as he had done endless times before to end uncomfortable arguments with Sarai, he apologized.

The scent of vanilla reached him again and Rufus closed his eyes. “May I kiss you?” Rufus asked softly, expecting a negative answer. He wasn’t sure Robert had even heard him what with the music being so loud, but his lips were to the man’s ear so there may have been a chance-

Robert’s lips met his in one smooth movement and for a lingering second, there was an unmistakable spark that Rufus had never thought to taste ever again. He opened his mouth in invitation and Robert tentatively accepted.

They swayed together as the kiss lasted, arced, and ended, sweetly, tenderly. They were nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye for another moment when Rufus hazarded: “May I have another?”

Robert nodded silently, smiling, and leaned in. His mouth enveloped Rufus’. This was as sweet as before but with a kick of something more feral. Soon it built up until the switch in songs made it clear to Rufus that they were still in public and it would be a hell of a thing to continue this, despite the low lights and loud music. Rufus pushed Robert back gently. “We can’t. Not here.”

Robert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled that beguiling smile again. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Rufus went breathless. He wanted to say no… and he wanted to scream yes… but neither word came to his lips. In the end, he merely nodded.

They snogged in the cab on the way. They snogged up the walk to his flat and against the front door of his building. They snogged in the lift. They snogged at his front door, through it, against all the walls to the bedroom and crashed into each other on the bed, tearing at clothing, pushing it aside with rough hands and fumbling fingers. Rufus knew he scratched Robert’s skin more than once but Robert didn’t seem to notice. Shirts and shoes were kicked off and pulled off and shied across the room, belts were pulled at, unbuckled and flies opened followed by questing hands and caressing fingertips.

Rufus gasped audibly. This was better than any fuck in the world he had had before. It was simultaneously rough and completely sensual. And because he was with a bloke (a thought that would have arrested every cell in his body if he were to approach this whole situation in a calm and rational manner), it wasn’t about foreplay so much as it was about just getting off.

Misters Take and Want were in the room and making themselves comfortable as the two men grasped at each other and pressed and grabbed and clutched and pushed. Soon there were no more clothes, no more barriers to them. “You’re clean?” he asked Robert as a moment of rationality swept past his brain and exited his mouth.

“Yes,” came Robert’s panted reply. “You?” His mouth sucked _right there_ on his neck.

“I’m f-fine,” he said. “J-just fine.”

“We’ll use a condom anyway,” said Robert.

“Please,” said Rufus.

Robert grunted his assent and flipped them over so he could be on top. A hand wrapped around their cocks and Rufus almost came unglued. “God damn!” he shouted and immediately covered his mouth with his hand, eyes wide in shock.

Robert was balanced on his knees and one hand above Rufus, his fringe flicked out of the way with one quick toss of his head. “S’Alright,” he assured him, “no one can hear us. Rear flat, back room away from everyone. No flat mates. You can scream as loud as you want. In fact,” he laughed, “I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

He was still working their cocks and Rufus’ hips were pressing up into the warm tightness of their own accord. He had lost track of his body’s ability to do anything other than follow primal instinct when Robert had found that spot on his neck in the cab and he watched with abject fascination as their dicks slid together and flipped around one another in a dance he never thought he’d perform.

Their frenzied fuck had not yet begun and Rufus felt helpless against the force of nature that was Robert. He kissed him as if to ask for help, like a drowning man waving to a ship for a life-preserver and getting only a wave of hello in response.

“Christ, but you’re beautiful,” said Robert.

His rhythm had calmed as he continued to look into Rufus’ eyes. Rufus couldn’t tell what passed behind them, but it affected Robert’s demeanor. His was no longer the panting, sweaty race to orgasm; there was something more there. The room was dark, the only light coming from a streetlamp across the road and down three storeys. Robert was backlit by the glow from the ceiling, a dark angel come to take away his soul through delicious frottage and kisses.

“Fuck me, love,” whispered the angel.

“I- I’ve never,” stuttered Rufus, because he hadn’t. He knew what to do with women and he knew what to do with men, but with men it was more of an on-paper theory rather than a proven practical experiment the way it had been with female companions.

Robert leaned up and away, still stroking their dicks between them, but resting wholly on his knees as he straddled Rufus’ hips. “S’alright,” he said after a few panting breaths, “I’ll show you.” He turned and laid down on his back, encouraging Rufus to change places with him.

His instructions were simple: one finger, adequately lubed, pressing then penetrating. Then find the prostate. Learn where it is and how much pressure is needed. Then try two fingers. Then push in three until he was open. It was easier than stereo instructions and much more fun to watch.

The moment Rufus found Robert’s prostate was the same moment he was wondering where it was and what it was meant to feel like. The thought had just sprung to his mind when Robert arched up with a shout of “Christ!” It was too much pressure and Rufus meant to pull away gently but must have jerked because it took Robert a moment to recover, wiping tears that had sprung to his eyes.

“Sorry,” said Rufus. “Sorry, Robert. I’m so sorry.”

“S’Alright, love,” replied Robert. “Gently now… go on. You’ve got it.”

And there it was just under his finger and not too far inward, surprisingly. Robert called out in a low moan that turned to a shout as he bore the pressure of it as best he could. His arm shot out and grabbed for the bedside table drawer. He pulled it open but pulled too far. It fell to the floor with a crash. “Condoms,” he said by way of explanation.

Rufus extracted his digit carefully from Robert’s pucker and reached down grabbing a handful of condoms that were placed loosely in the drawer. He dumped them unceremoniously on the bed and Robert laughed. “You are eager to explore the unknown, Dr. Livingston, aren’t you?”

Rufus answered him with a look that said “smart arse” and a kiss that said “just you wait”.

His finger found the opening again and before long, all instructions had been followed, cocks were covered in condoms and a nugget of lube stood out on the tip of Rufus’ throbbing member. Robert hissed at the press of the cold lube and Rufus watched carefully as the gel was eased in and around Robert’s hole. Then it was The Moment.

Rufus had always considered this the connection: the seconds before actual penetration occurred when two people became one pulsating unit, breathing the same breath, the anticipation of tromboning together, hearts sharing the rhythm set millennia before, and the look between them echoing shared thoughts unspoken. He needed to see his eyes. He reached up and brushed back Robert’s fringe, caressing a sweaty forehead in the process and spreading the damp to his hair which obeyed his touch. Rufus leaned over and pressed his forehead to Robert’s. He hesitated and waited for that moment he knew was there. He had only hoped Robert wasn’t too afraid to let go.

It was just a glimmer, but it was hope and it set Rufus’ world on fire. He kissed him and pressed himself gently inward. There was little-to-no resistance but the rings of muscle were distinct enough to be a completely different sensation to him. He felt Robert wrap his thighs around his ribs and give them a squeeze as he rocked his hips upward, gathering in more of Rufus’ length inch by glorious inch.

There was no more to give. He was buried deep inside Robert and settled himself on him to await further instruction. This was not like a woman. There were delicate bits here to consider, parts he owned and enjoyed normal function of. He didn’t want to break him – he would never want that. But he didn’t know what to do. He was drowning and waving again and Robert had his eyes closed. “Please,” he whispered, “please, Robert.”

His eyes opened and Rufus saw something shift behind them. “Slowly,” he said. “Shh… slowly now. Carefully.” Sliding back outward, flesh moving inside of his sheath, he felt the condom around his foreskin pull and for a fleeting moment he thought he would lose it, but the foreskin slid next and with it the condom and his head was trapped by his sphincter and he looked to Robert asking for information, permission, guidance, willing him to believe that he meant him no harm by this invasive and foreign act.

Robert’s face beamed as though watching his child make his first steps. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked. Rufus nodded and smiled, exhausted from waiting for Robert to say something, anything to let him know he wasn’t screwing this all up. “Feels good to me too,” said Robert. “Now come on in. I’ll help.”

He shifted forward and pushed into him. It was somehow easier, more familiar, but there was something else. Rufus pulled out of his own accord on the next round and as he pushed back, he felt Robert opening up for him, welcoming him inside of him, inside his heat. Rufus kissed him gently and pressed their foreheads to one another. “Thank you,” Rufus said.

Robert smiled and closed his eyes. “Thank you, love,” he said. “You’re so fucking amazing. Just gorgeous.”

The rhythm they adopted was moderate and filled with kinetic possibility held back only by Rufus’ unwillingness to press too far too fast. Rufus had no doubt that if there were a repeat performance requested, he would be able to fuck Robert with as much vigor as he would like. As Robert rolled beneath him, he imagined pinning that lithe body against a wall, or a shower stall, or upon a kitchen table, or the sofa, knocking things off the surfaces that got in their way, a terrible messy maelstrom of passion and sex, the way he had always wanted Sarai but was too shy to ask, her being the headstrong one, always taking the lead when it came to their coitus.

But with Robert… he wanted to impress him. He wanted to savor his expression when he took charge. The look on his face would be priceless and on the next pull out, he got brave. Rufus brought Robert’s legs up, hooking his knees against his shoulders and curled the man inward. The head of his cock was only millimeters away from the place he sought and with just a wiggle he found what he was looking for.

“Oh bloody Christ!” shouted Robert. Rufus held the position and rocked back and forth, circling his hips to lend pressure and take it away in a pulsing rhythm that had Robert drooling and keening, wiggling and whimpering. It was better than he could have hoped.

Robert’s hand shot to his manhood and he began to stroke himself as Rufus balanced them both, pressing and releasing and pressing and releasing until Robert felt himself tip along the crest of eternity. “F-fuck! Yes! Yes!” he whimpered as cum shot from him and gathered on his chest and over his fingers. As soon as Rufus had seen that he was spent, he leaned in for his own satisfaction, slick, smooth thrusts that met no resistance. Robert was a limp thing beneath him, but his eyes were alight with witch-fire. He watched Rufus find his stroke, lose himself in his eyes, and crest on the border just before his tremendous crash into him, hips stuttering, his exhale a long, slow, low moan of ecstasy reached.

Rufus collapsed onto him, whispering his name into the shell of his ear.


	3. Beauty and Bravery

Sixsmith tried to think of a good place for their luncheon. It was a mystery as to what food Robert liked and, if he were honest, he had no earthly clue if the man had any allergies. Sixsmith imagined that Robert would laugh uproariously if he asked him about something as mundane and specific as food allergens. He shook his head and smiled, watching the people strolling about the Scott Monument on a fine autumn afternoon. Robert had told him to meet him here and true to his word, at half past two on the dot, he came ambling along the east path with a sack under his arm and a smile on his face.

“Greetings weary traveler,” chirped Sixsmith.

“Hello to you, fair Sixsmith,” replied Robert. The slight damp cold that made the air crisp about them had reddened his cheeks and it made him more charming than ever. “Shall we?”

Sixsmith rose to his feet and said: “Yes, but I have no idea where you’d like to go. I suppose we could dine at the Balmoral, it being so close-“

“Don’t be silly,” said Robert. “We dine at Scott’s: the best food, the best company, and the best view in the city.”

“Where’s Scott’s?” asked Sixsmith. He had lived in Edinburgh for almost four years and had never heard of the place.

“Just there,” said Robert with an impish smile as he nodded toward the monument which towered over them both. “We’ll climb to the top and have a look about. Then we’ll eat, have a smoke, and you can ask me anything that you like.” He strode with purpose toward the small booth at the base of the statue and entered in.

Sixsmith walked toward it with a bit of trepidation. He didn’t care for heights. But if he were with Robert, he thought he could do anything. He crawled inside the space and trudged up the hidden stair to the top opening. The wind was a bit fresher and he looked all about the tower for Robert who was nowhere to be seen. “Robert?!” he called and the wind took away his words. He settled his trilby tighter on his head and made his way to the cross-section between the four buttresses. He finally saw him to his right: setting out a large cloth napkin on the floor as a makeshift table cloth.

“There you are,” said Robert, looking up. He was seated tailor fashion on the stone floor, the cloth before him, the monument’s retention walls to either side buffering the majority of the wind as he set out the food. The sack contained fruit, sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, two fizzy drinks and two bottles of water. Robert looked over the repast as Sixsmith sat opposite him and remarked: “It’s not a feast, nor is it gourmet, but we won’t starve and that’s the point.”

Rufus smiled at him. For the first time, he got a chance to look at him properly and was pleased with what he saw. “I never in my life thought I would find another man so alluring,” he said. “But you beat all comers.” He leaned in closely over their food and searched Robert’s face. “What color are your eyes?”

“Green,” offered Robert, leaning in to let him see, “with flecks of blue and a ring of black ‘round the outside. Hazel green.”

“Extraordinary,” said Sixsmith.

“Really?” asked Robert. “I should think that they were rather common. Not that striking at all.”

“But with your complexion and your dark hair,” said Sixsmith. “And you have very long eyelashes. You’re lovely.”

Robert cocked his head to one side and chewed on an egg thoughtfully. “And I think you’re lovely too, Sixsmith. If it weren’t for the trilby, I should think I was in love.”

Sixsmith bit into his sandwich, tomato and cheese. “I quite like my hat, thank you,” he said, only slightly offended.

“I’m sure you do,” said Robert. “But it is a bit ridiculous on you. You’re far too young.”

“Do you always make personal comments about people’s head coverings?” asked Sixsmith.

“Only people I care about,” replied Robert as he bit into his tomato and cheese.

Sixsmith thought to comment on this, but he let it go. Perhaps it was a test of some kind. It was only hours ago that Robert had nearly ripped his head off for wanting more than just a one night stand. And an hour before that…. Was he trying to find out just how deeply Sixsmith’s feelings went? Or was he just trying to sort things out for himself? Either way, Sixsmith thought it best to let it lie. It would all shake out in the end: either they would continue to see each other or they wouldn’t. For right now, Sixsmith was contented to have a secluded spot to have a small lunch and a lovely companion who hated his hat.

 

~080~

 

The first postcard came and Sixsmith tacked it to his corkboard in his office at the house, laughing. It was of the clock tower that so captivated London’s tourist population, something he could have picked up in any souvenir shop on any street corner in the city. On the back he had written:

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Weather here. Wish you were beautiful.

Robert

PS – I told you I’d write.

 

He had only been gone two days, but it had seemed like a lifetime. He did say he would write, but he thought he’d been joking. He was grateful for the thought, considering how unexpected receiving it had been. It had fostered the weak hope that perhaps there would be a next time. And perhaps he’d get more than just a postcard. Sixsmith shook his head at the folly of wishing for more from a bohemian spirit like Robert Frobisher and went to sift through the rest of his bills.

 

~080~

 

“Smoking after a meal is one of life’s greatest pleasures,” Robert said, shaking out a cigarette for Sixsmith. He took it gladly and leaned over as Robert offered a light. They were sated on their meager repast and sat braced against the fore-shortened walls of the buttresses, arse on one, and feet on the other. They looked out over Saturday afternoon in Edinburgh.

Traffic on Prince’s Street was behind the main monument and they faced out over the greenery of the commons. People milled about more on the concrete city thoroughfares than along the park paths and somewhere inside of himself Sixsmith thought it a shame. “The only thing that trumps this, of course, is a cigarette right here just at sunrise. It’s absolutely beautiful here at sunrise,” said Robert.

“Perhaps tomorrow morning I can meet you?” asked Sixsmith.

Robert eyed him. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Do you object?” he asked.

“Not particularly, only-“ Robert hesitated.

“Only?” asked Sixsmith.

Robert was silent for a full drag and exhale. “I wonder why you’re so damned attached.”

“I find you completely irresistible,” said Sixsmith honestly.

Robert stared at him, his brow furrowed. “My God. I think you mean that.”

Sixsmith didn’t say a word. He just exhaled his smoke with a chuckle and nodded, staring off over the city.

There were several moments of silence to follow. The only sound that came to them was the afternoon traffic, the birds, the people. “What was her name?” Robert asked.

Sixsmith shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was just the same. “Sarai.”

“Pretty,” said Robert. He didn’t look at him.

“She is,” he replied. Sarai had always thought well of her own looks, but she never shied from one of Sixsmith’s – no, Rufus’ – compliments. Sixsmith wasn’t a man Sarai had ever met. Rufus was the man she knew. Sixsmith was Robert’s creation and it was fine. He reveled in the duality of it all; it made him feel more free than he had felt in ages.

“What brought you into work today?” asked Sixsmith.

“I had to get things in order,” said Robert.

“Things?”

“I have a presentation to make on Monday evening in London. I don’t want to fuck it up,” said Robert.

“Something to do with your composing program?” asked Sixsmith, finishing his smoke and stamping it out.

Robert nodded. “I’ve had an offer from a development company. They want to take my program and make it global: distribution, advertising, the like. I’ve got to meet with someone called Mr. Vivian Ayrs who’s a vice president or something and show him the demo.”

“You sound scared,” said Sixsmith.

Robert laughed and shot him a coy look. “I am usually not intimidated, my dear Sixsmith, but the prospect of London and this meeting makes me giddy and sick all at once. It’s my very future at stake.”

“If you think it’ll help, you can practice on me,” offered Sixsmith. Robert stamped out his cigarette and stood. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Cold?” asked Sixsmith.

“A bit,” said Robert. Sixsmith stood and, opening his coat for shelter, held him in his arms. “Oh Sixsmith,” he said into his neck, “I think I’m becoming rather attached to you too.”

 

~080~

 

It was another day before he got the letter. He didn’t realize who it was from at first. It had a return address for a hotel in London and it took his brain a moment to catch up. His fingers flew to the seal and ripped it open, his eyes eager to devour more of that spiky-fluid handwriting. Even if it was a letter telling him to fuck off it would have been a significant thing – no one writes letters anymore.

 

My Dearest Sixsmith—

Here I sit, dejected and alone on a Monday afternoon and I hope that all is well with you. I am miserable, having been up half the night being sick over this meeting tonight. I’m going to look like hell warmed-over when I make the meeting – I never slept on the train like I’d planned. So much for looking rosy.

The only thing that calms me is the thought of you. Isn’t it strange that four days ago I was going to do this all alone and then – you. That you should show your glorious face in my hour of need is nothing short of miraculous. Thank you. And thank Sarai for making you miserable enough to seek my company. Remind me to send her flowers when we are together again.

I know you can’t join me down here, but I really wish you could. Just your presence here would be a balm to my soul. But time and tide and all that rot… I’ll stop boring you now. Only know that when I’d said I’d write to you, I meant it. You don’t have to write back. As a matter of fact, if things go as planned tonight, I may be travelling even further away from you. This Mr. Ayrs may want me to go back with him to America. Did I mention that he was an American? Well, he is. And he may try to steal me away from you for a bit. But believe me when I say that it will only be for a short while.

My heart won’t let me be apart from you for too long.

Robert

 

~080~

 

“I call it ‘Music Map’,” said Robert as he woke up his computer and powered up the keyboard attachment. It came alive as commanded and sat open on the screen like a fresh piece of paper in a typewriter: full of potential.

“I like it so far,” said Sixsmith encouragingly.

Robert smiled at him, knowing full well what Sixsmith already knew: that he was only being kind; that Sixsmith was a scientist, not a musician and had no practical use for or knowledge of what he was about to bear witness to. Sixsmith hoped that whatever he managed to say or do would result in a boost of confidence to Robert, pathetic as it may seem.

Robert clicked on different icons and explained: “The concept is that certain composers want to sometimes experiment with the different ranges of different instruments and while they may be able to compose music that would be interesting to listen to, the aesthetics may not be what they intended. Music Map has stored in its database musical samples from live instruments, extrapolated so that they may be manipulated into random harmonies and melodies. Now normally, this isn’t different from any other musical program, but I’ve spent three years (and most of my hard-earned money) obtaining these samples first hand with my own equipment. I have samples of over three thousand live instruments – more than any other computer program can boast.

“Once the composer has set their instruments, the ranges for which are pre-determined by the samples already contained therein, then they can begin to compose.” Here Robert clicked on a few icons, dragging and dropping them into their respective bass and treble clefs along the screen. “The composer can opt to keep each line separate and then combine them later to see how everything fits, or they can compose all at the same time – only useful when composing something with instruments in the same musical range. They can also opt to juxtapose those instruments. For instance: combining a tuba with a piccolo might be an intriguing concept.” With a few more clicks of the mouse, Robert had composed “Happy Birthday” as played by piccolo and tuba.

“That is utterly amazing, Robert,” said Sixsmith. “How is it that you were able to do all of this inside of three years with only you contributing? It seems to me that you’d have to have scads of people helping you develop such a program.”

“No, no my sweet,” said Robert. “I’ve actually been writing this program for almost ten years. The three years I mentioned were just those years I spent obtaining musical samples.”

Sixsmith just stared at Robert who smiled modestly. “You are so amazing, Robert.”

“Did you want to hear a sextet for full orchestra?” asked Robert. Sixsmith nodded, unable to tear his eyes from the dark-haired beauty. There were a few more clicks and taps and Robert regarded him: “This is my own composition. It’s meant to be a sample on the program, just for the demo, but it’ll play in its entirety if you allow it to. I call it, ‘Cloud Atlas’.”

With a click, Sixsmith was arrested by high violins playing pianissimo. The sweet sadness of the melody came over them both as they sat still and let the music dance about them. It was the most hauntingly beautiful thing Sixsmith had ever heard and he felt himself blink past tears as he continued to be boggled by the complexity of the human in front of him. “I’ll make you a copy if you like,” he said, offering a thumb drive to him.

Sixsmith nodded. “Dance with me,” he heard himself say.

Robert smiled and rose to his feet. The office was small, but if their chairs were pushed in under the desk, there was room enough to move to the lilting rhythmic music. “It’s like hearing the universe turn,” said Sixsmith. Robert closed his eyes and allowed Sixsmith to move him about, following along languidly, each man wrapped in the arms of the other as they slowly revolved, feeling each other’s warmth through their fingers. Sixsmith pressed his cheek to Robert’s and sighed. “I never want to stop.”

Robert kissed him. “So don’t.”

 

~080~

 

It was a shit day. The rain was shit. His project had been shit. His boss had shit all over his resulting report because he was asking the fucking impossible. It was all fucked up. And for the _coup de_ _gr_ _â_ _ce_ , he stumbled into his flat and trod his dripping-wet filthy feet all over the post.

“God damn fucking shit!” came unbidden out of his mouth. He stood dripping on it, punishing himself further for no good reason other than to be completely masochistic. He groaned and looked down at the mess. Bills… why was he still getting bills if he paid everything online? He shook his head and grabbed at the damp paper.

It was times like these that he missed Robert the most. It had been another week and he hadn’t heard a word. This was silly, communicating by post. It had all been Robert’s idea and in the beginning it was romantic. It was like some antiquated form of lovemaking; souvenirs to be kept and treasured and read and re-read, kisses through words, caresses through sentiment. It was stupid and sad and terrible and Sixsmith couldn’t wait for the next letter. Dear god, why hadn’t he sent anything?

He held it up in the kitchen like a trophy. His agony disappeared. It was a rather romantic picture of Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss”. He took in the beauty of the art for a fleeting moment and wondered if the same thoughts ran through Robert’s mind when he picked it out. He held it like a small bird, not willing to crush so much as a feather as he flipped it over to read the scrawl.

The words were mostly smudged. He sat heavily in the chair and he felt his throat lock up as if he was going to cry. He took himself out of his despair long enough to hope for some chance of reading the message. His last postcard was comical, perhaps this one was meant to be also. But if the photo on the opposite side was any indication, he hadn’t much hope of a flippant message. No. It was meant to be something special.

 

He turned on his reading lamp at his desk and peered at the writing, screwing up his eyes and trying to make out the message.

 

My Dearest Si----

When I --- th-- - wanted -- ---- ---. Wouldn’t it be--- om---ic to kiss--- -----?

Robert

 

Sixsmith put his head in his arms and heaved a sigh. Nightmare day.

 

~080~

 

The Scottish National Gallery was never so fun as when Sixsmith saw the paintings through the filter of Robert Frobisher. He waxed poetic about this and that artist, never sticking to the first, always flitting to the second and so on until the paints and canvases were a dizzy spin in Sixsmith’s head. They would be admiring a Gainsborough in one moment and then flying across the museum in a blur to admire the Titian. It seems that every gallery held a treasure that was Robert’s absolute favorite.

“You just can’t settle on one, can you?” asked Sixsmith.

“Why would you want to?” asked Robert.

“Surely this is all just your nervous energy coming out to play, isn’t it?” asked Sixsmith.

“I told you: I’m not nervous. I’m just giddy and sick.”

“And for most people that would mean excited and… nervous,” he said pointedly.

“Don’t do it, Sixsmith,” warned Robert, standing closely to him with war in his eyes.

“Don’t do what?” asked Sixsmith.

Robert took a step closer, his fringe brushing Sixsmith’s forehead. “Don’t make me kiss you right in the middle of this gallery just to shut you up,” he said. That beguiling grin was back.

“Rufus?” asked a voice from behind him.

Sixsmith turned around as though he had been stung. “Mr. Cavendish?” he asked.

The man called Cavendish stepped forward and extended his hand. A little girl of about five or six held the other. “Rufus Sixsmith! Good to see you! I never expected to see you here. Taking in the culture today?”

“Yes,” said Sixsmith, blushing as though he were caught by the headmaster with a girl underneath the football stands. “And so are you.”

“Well,” said Cavendish, “just showing the tot about. It’s her first weekend with daddy in almost a month. Now that Mommy’s gone back to Birmingham, that is. We never see each other anymore, do we darling?” He leaned over to his daughter who had chosen at that moment to stick her fingers in her mouth and be shy.

“Hello,” greeted Sixsmith amiably, “I have a daughter too, only she’s a bit older. Her name’s Megan.”

“Say hello to the nice man, Lucy,” urged Cavendish, but Lucy was having none of it. She looked from her father to Sixsmith and up behind him to what Sixsmith knew to be Robert’s curious face. He hadn’t mentioned Megan and he wondered what comeuppance there would be when he did. “Your wife got custody too?” asked Cavendish.

“Yes,” replied Sixsmith. “She’s off with her in London. I haven’t seen Megan since the divorce. Sarai says she doesn’t want to see me. Megan’s twelve. She’s at that age. It’s likely.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” said Cavendish who wasn’t like a mate at all to Sixsmith. He was more of an acquaintance, really. “Still… we do what we can with cards, pressies, and letters and such.” Sixsmith nodded a weak agreement and forced a smile to his face.

Robert cleared his throat. Sixsmith didn’t dare look at him but said: “And this is my friend Robert. Robert, this is my co-worker, Denny Cavendish.”

“Hello, Denny!” He came around Sixsmith to shake Denny’s hand with a very limp wrist and an over-eager lilt to his voice. He squatted close to Lucy and greeted her: “And hello Lucy. How lovely you look today.” Lucy rewarded him with a slobbery smile from around her fingers. He stood and with perfect angelic beatific grace pronounced Lucy “simply adorable”.

Sixsmith wanted to crawl through the floor. He was fairly certain that most homosexual people would be offended by his display of stereotypical effeminate charm and that Robert was only behaving this way to get back at Sixsmith for not mentioning his daughter, or more because he had been embarrassed to be seen with him once he was around someone he knew. His revenge was complete when Cavendish laughed nervously and made some excuse about having to take little Lucy by Jenners before heading back to his house. “I’ll see you down mill,” he joked as he waved to both men awkwardly and disappeared into a farther gallery, Lucy being dragged behind, still staring at Robert and still sucking at wet fingers.

 

~080~

 

“You should probably call it a loss, Rufus,” said Sarai. She was always this way when it came to him wanting to see his daughter. “Face it: she’s twelve and difficult.”

“Look,” he said, “It’s a bank holiday weekend and I just thought she’d like the break. I haven’t seen her in months, Sarai.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve tried to tell her that pushing you out wasn’t a good idea.”

There was something she wasn’t telling him, he could feel it. “And?”

“And what?”

“And she said…” he prompted.

“And…” she continued with great reticence, “… she said that I pushed you out so why couldn’t she?”

Rufus closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “Tell me you fought for me.”

“I didn’t get in another word,” she said. “She’s in that stomping off in a strop and slamming the door phase. There’s no talking to her.”

Rufus bit back the words “just like her mother” and sighed again.

“Is there no one there to keep you preoccupied during the holiday?” she said as if the subject was closed.

“Not anymore,” escaped his lips before he had a chance to stop them.

“Oh?” she asked. “Well… good for you, I suppose. Anyone I know?”

“No,” said Rufus. “And anyway it doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

“She dumped you?” she asked.

“Not precisely,” said Rufus.

“Then what happened?” asked Sarai.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly as he paced in his kitchen. “Listen, Sarai…”

“I see,” she said. “I’m no longer your wife and therefore no longer your friend. I thought we were going to be amicable about this divorce, Rufus.” Rufus sighed again. “Nevermind. I was hoping that she didn’t break your heart is all. Bad enough I did it. The thought of another woman coming in and wrecking your life all over again would make me…”

“Jealous?” he said. The word surprised them both.

She paused and he thought she was going to hang up. “In a way… I suppose, yes,” she said. “You know how possessive I am.” She gave a soft chuckle at her own admission and Rufus laughed in response.

“You can be, yes,” he agreed.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about her?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I can’t really. Explain it, that is. H- It’s… complicated.”

“He?” she asked.

“What?”

“Sorry. I thought for a moment you said “he”. Must be the connection.”

“Right,” he said. He shuffled again. “Listen, try her again, will you? Just ask her to think about it.”

“I will,” she said. After a pause she added: “Be careful, Rufus.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I will. Thanks, Sarai.”

 

~080~

 

“Coward.” He spat the word.

Robert’s eyes were piercing and he stared Sixsmith down head to toe with a disgusted look on his face. He stormed out of the gallery, through the next one and disappeared around a corner.

“Robert,” whined Sixsmith. “Robert!” He went after him as quickly as he dared and caught him on the outside steps of the museum, traffic, people, Edinburgh milling about them. He took him by one arm and pulled him. “Please.”

“You utter coward. You utter shit, Rufus Sixsmith,” said Robert. “I had a feeling I was just a dalliance at first, but today’s talks, lunch, the studio, even the museum… Christ, even the sex! I thought there might be more to you. But there isn’t; you’re just a straight guy having a weekend with a bender. What a novelty I must be to you!”

“Robert,” said Sixsmith desperate. His eyes darted around and noted every pair of staring eyes belonging to every person that passed them up. “It’s not like that and you know it. Please. Let’s not cause a scene.”

“No scenes,” said Robert. “Mustn’t do that. Not British. Not proper. Not straight. But I’m not straight, Sixsmith. I’m bisexual with a gay bent. I will never fit in. I will never be normal. And I will never be accepted by society. Now when you’re like me and you’re facing all that, there are only two things to be done about it: hide or live. I’m choosing to live. What are you choosing to do?” Robert was incensed and there was no stopping his tirade of indignation.

“You’re choosing to be ashamed of me, ashamed of what we are to one another.” Sixsmith was sweating in the cool autumn air. People were openly staring now, but Robert went along as though they were the only men in the city. “And you are ashamed, aren’t you?” He stood resolute, hands in his pockets, the same way he was on the concrete just that morning when he should have told Rufus to fuck off but went against his better judgment. “Tell me something, Sixsmith: if I hadn’t cleared my throat, would you have introduced me ever?”

“Of course,” said Sixsmith. Robert narrowed his eyes and inhaled, smelling the lie. Sixsmith sighed. “No… you’re right. You’re right and I’m wrong and I’ve been so stupid and I am a coward and I’m so sorry and I do… adore you. Please believe me, Robert.” He stepped closer to him. “I do adore you so very much. You’re hypnotic and beautiful and…” He had run out of words.

“Kiss me,” Robert demanded.

“What?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, man! Kiss me!” he shouted. A couple of teenage girls tittered. Sixsmith took Robert’s face in his hands and placed his lips to his. There was a small flutter of applause and a few whistles of approval from the collected crowd, but a two-tonne lorry could have barged in and it wouldn’t have pricked the ears of the two men at the center of everyone’s attention.

It only took a second of contact before the spark lit again and the kiss moved deeper. His hands carded through Robert’s tresses as his tongue slid against his. He could feel Robert’s strong hold around his torso as though Sixsmith were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth, the kiss they shared the only thing keeping him alive. And it was. Sixsmith realized that he was being kept alive by this strange and unusual creature, this determined powerhouse, his energy the only thing that mattered in the world.


	4. Hatred and Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAIR WARNING: This is where the timeline of the story splits even more. Be prepared.

His hand reached for Robert. The smell of the soap clung to him and he needed to drag his nose along all that delicious skin. The morning light was getting brighter and Robert’s ex-girlfriend’s intrusion was an echoed memory as they intertwined their bodies once more. Rufus rolled Robert underneath him and kissed along his collarbone and chest, pausing to suckle against a nipple and nibble at the edge of his ribcage. Robert laughed. “Ticklish, love,” he said as he squirmed. “Stop!” Rufus pulled his head up to look at him, to see if he had honestly made some type of transgression, but Robert was smiling in the sunshine and Rufus smiled back.

He leaned up and kissed his mouth. “You taste like bitter coffee,” remarked Robert.

“Do I?” asked Rufus, eyeing the shot glass of sugar on the bedside table. He crawled to it and took it and the milk-filled one with one hand. “We’ll sweeten things, shall we?” He slammed back the shot of milk and grinned as he slowly poured the sugar in a delicate line from Robert’s sternum to his hardening cock. “This may take a while,” he said. Robert didn’t say a word, but a mischievous grin bloomed on his face.

Rufus licked, his tongue wide, at the great hollow below Robert’s breast bone, above his stomach. He moved the sugar around in his mouth and stared at Robert predatorily. Robert’s grin grew wider. Rufus mixed more of his saliva with his next few licks, but they were all slow, deliberate and meant to tease. Soon Rufus’ face was covered in sugar, clinging to his morning stubble, adding a sweet glistening glaze to his beard. Delicacy forgotten after a few more licks, Rufus became an animal dining at a trough; his lips and tongue scooped up more and more of the sugar, smacking together and scraping dully at the skin underneath.

Rufus’ tongue brushed the tip of Robert’s cock. It was decorated in a light dusting of sugar and Rufus took great care and pleasure in introducing his prick to his sugar-soaked mouth. Robert gasped with the sensation. Rufus worked on his half-hard cock, dragging his lips along its length, pulling back the foreskin to reveal the head and swipe the tip of his sugar-coated tongue. He took in his length again, gently sucking at the head as he pulled back the foreskin.

Rufus felt fingers in his hair and felt Robert shift as he became more comfortable with the sensation of melting sugar crystals against his dick. The resulting syrup was sticky sweet and sugar was everywhere. Rufus put a hand to Robert’s belly feeling the remains of sugar granules and wet saliva syrup. He wrapped his other hand around the base of his cock, now surrounded by more sugar crystals, as he worked his shaft up and down, saliva coating his member, sugar sticking on his mouth and chin.

“Fuck but this is amazing,” gasped Robert as Rufus’ head bobbed along in a slow, steady rhythm. “I could fuck your mouth all day long.” And Rufus would’ve let him.

Rufus couldn’t help but imagine Sarai’s face to see him now with his sugar-coated mouth cock-filled and humming. She would be utterly disgusted and Rufus smiled around Robert’s shaft as he worked along it, savoring the taste of getting his power back. Robert’s panting voice brought him back to the task at hand: “Christ, love. You are so fucking good at this.”

He was flattered at the compliment considering that it was the first dick he’d ever sucked. Strange to say: he hadn’t hesitated. From the moment he drank the milk and poured the sugar, his only thought was to please the man beneath him. He didn’t think twice that he was a _he_. It didn’t matter. The only thing that meant anything to him in that moment was the look in Robert’s eyes as he teased him and pleasured him. He looked in those eyes once more and found them dark and glinting. “More?” he asked.

“Please.”

 

~080~

 

On the second week that Robert was gone Sixsmith opened this letter on a surprisingly warm autumn day.

 

My Dear Sixsmith,

This is to inform you that my suspicions about having to leave you for an even more extended period have come true.

Christ, that was formal. Is this why people don’t write letters anymore? Because it forces them to think about their words before putting them on paper? Anyway, yes, it’s true that I will be leaving for America – and very soon. Mr. Vivian Ayrs is not one to waste time. Neither is his wife, Jocasta.

She came with him on his trip to see me and she’s very interested in hating her husband - which I find utterly fascinating. She’s done everything she can to spend his money while they’re here and she’s even taken to flirting openly with the hotel staff and every waiter she claps eyes on.

It’s mesmerizingly pathetic how he ignores her deliberately. Oh he kisses her hand and pulls out her chair, but it’s all show. He doesn’t really love her. She’s just the window-dressing of his life; the thing that makes him feel like he’s accomplished something. A piece of l’objet d’art that he’s supposed to own by virtue of the fact that he’s a rather-past-middle-aged white male. He’s one of those people who gets married because it’s what society expects you to do. Like leaving tick marks on some great social list: birth, tick; education, tick; first job, tick; first company, tick; first house, tick; first wife, tick. Holy Buddha in the sky, but he’s boring.

So any woman that finds herself hitched to such a tedious fop as one Vivian Ayrs (Did your parents name him, by the way?) is bound to be much more interesting than the man himself. And so, it turns out, she finds me interesting as well. Something may come of that, but don’t lose faith, dear heart. We both know who I’m constantly thinking of and to whom my heart belongs.

So there it is: I’m leaving for America – sooner rather than later. I consider this a great success and am willing to accept your apologies when I return a triumphant millionaire who was never “excited and scared” but merely giddy and a bit sick. I expect flowers. I prefer tiger lilies or tulips. Do your best. I know you will.

All my everything,

Robert

 

Despair sat on Sixsmith’s chest like an elephant. He folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. He pressed a drawing pin through the very corner of it so as to drive the tack through the envelope and not through the letter itself and placed it on the cork board beside the other correspondence. He looked over his small collection and missed him.

 

~080~

 

Breathless, Robert guided Rufus’s mouth off his cock and pulled it into a kiss. Sugar was everywhere, granules sticky and rough between them as they shifted against each other. Rufus wanted to taste every inch of him. He trailed kisses along his collarbone, down his shoulder and underneath, licking at the sensitive skin under his arm, burying his nose in the thatch of black hair and nibbling at the skin just beneath it. He bit and licked at every rib, thrilling at the sounds emanating from his lover, enjoying the power, the control he had. When he ran out of ribs, he took bigger bites of flank and hip, leaving bruising marks that he didn’t feel guilty about at all.

“Fucking Christ!” cried Robert. Rufus could feel his nails digging into his back and he bit a little harder. “God damn it, man.”

“Over,” said Rufus. “I want your backside to be my breakfast.”

“Bloody hell,” murmured Robert, his lithe body complying. He went up on his knees and placed his head on the pillow. Rufus began at the seam between buttock and thigh, biting down gently into a sucking kiss that lingered. He licked at the spot and dragged a wide tongue up and over the mound of flesh before him. Rufus heard moaning and was surprised to find that it was coming from his own mouth.

Here was new territory as well. And he had taken it without hesitation. Sarai had never let him near her arse. She was disgusted by the thought of anal sex and wouldn’t allow his mouth near her down there – not even to kiss her tailbone. As it was, she could barely tolerate a peck on the mouth after he performed cunnilingus; she had always made him brush his teeth and rinse his mouth afterward. But this wasn’t the predictable delicate sex with his ex-wife that he was used to after fourteen years of marriage. Robert was so open and willing… it brought out the animal in Rufus. It made him acutely aware of just how much he was holding back. The word “starved” came to mind.

“I can’t get enough of the taste of you, Robert,” said Rufus as he pleasured his other arse cheek. “Sweet delicious Robert.”

He felt Robert’s warm hand over his where it rested on his hip. “Don’t stop, love,” said Robert. “Don’t ever stop.”

 

~080~

 

Judging by the postcard, it had taken a week to get to him. It had an image of the historic Hollywood sign splashed across it, its letters uneven and jaunty in the photograph. Somehow Sixsmith had always assumed the letters to be perfectly aligned as it sat on that hillside in California. He was suddenly grateful that it did not. California had kidnapped his Robert and he was happy to discover any imperfections. Sixsmith suddenly realized how jealous a lover he was.

The back of it contained his tight scrawl of words:

 

Dear Sixsmith,

Cali is as it says on the tin. Weather, landscapes, shops, people - gaudy in their elegance. Not enough rain to suit. Missing you awfully. Jocasta is getting friendlier. Vivian Ayrs is not. Will write soonest.

Love, Robert

 

That phrase “Jocasta is getting friendlier” made Sixsmith worry. “Take care, Robert,” he whispered to his empty bedroom. He propped up the card with the Hollywood sign facing him on his bedside table and turned off the light. He wondered where he was right at that moment. Ten o’clock minus eight hours… that makes it two o’clock in the afternoon there. He hoped Robert was alright. “Take care, my love,’ he whispered to the darkness and closed his eyes.

 

~080~

 

At first taste, Robert was delicious. When he plunged his tongue inside of him and turned Robert into that moaning creature, his taste became exquisite. Rufus took his time with it, having never been granted permission before. He experimented, taunted, and hummed his way along and inside him and no matter what happened (clutching at the sheets, panting breath, pleading whimpers) he never let up or let go. This was what he had been missing: the power of pushing the other to their limit. He never felt so alive and complete as when he made Robert his own in this way. No sooner had he started to hum along his tongue than Robert’s hand clasped over his hand that rested on his hip and squeezed it in a paroxysm of urgent want. “Christ, Rufus,” he said. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

And he wanted to. He wanted to make Robert explode all over himself as he did the night before. He wanted to show Robert what he had taught him and what he had figured out for himself. But a little too much too fast was not in the cards that morning, as far as Rufus was concerned. He felt the need for a quick shower.

He pulled away and Robert whimpered pathetically, waiving his arse in the air. “Please,” he whined like a petulant five-year-old who wanted a sweet.

“Not yet, you filthy boy,” said Rufus and he gave that pert arse a playful smack-pat.

“Ooh,” said Robert, smiling back at him through messy fringe. He sat up and turned, wrapping his arms around Rufus’ shoulders. He kissed him. Rufus wondered how disgusted Sarai would be with him at that moment. He didn’t think she’d mind him kissing a man so long as both had brushed their teeth and he couldn’t help but smile at what sweet beautiful revenge Robert was.

“That’s a devious smile. What is it?” asked Robert.

“You’re incredible,” said Rufus, honestly.

“Thank you,” said Robert in quiet modesty. He reached down for both of their cocks and stroked them gently together. “How’s that, gorgeous Rufus?” Rufus didn’t reply for there was something serious about this. Robert may have been beautiful revenge, but he was more than that. He saw the glimmer of it last night when he first entered him. He felt the surging flicker of it in himself just then: sobering, serious, critical. This was The Moment without penetration. And the more stunning part was that it lived in Robert’s eyes too. They were dusky with lust and the color of them was pushed away, their territory invaded by irises blown wide, but the sober Moment was there just the same.

After a long moment they kissed and it wasn’t passionate or frenzied. It was a love-making kiss, full of meaning, full of the terror of possibility. They fell into the rhythm of one another and dwelled there for a time, their souls sharing the same thought: this is where I am supposed to be.

 

~080~

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Oh happy day! It’s finally happened! My program is going to be distributed and all the paperwork is to be signed off at the end of this week. They had me do some tweaking, which of course had to be re-approved and I wondered if I should have the program re-copyrighted considering the changes, but Vivian assured me that everything would still fall under the same copyright laws and I shouldn’t worry but honestly, Sixsmith, it’d be to his advantage if I did nothing with it. So I’ll ask you: do you know any copyright lawyers in Edinburgh or London who are willing to weigh in on this? I could use the help and I know I should call you, but there’s the rub. You see, I never got a phone for this country and to call back home would cost me a mint and Vivian would prefer I not use his. Please help me if you can.

Jocasta will mail this letter for me. I’ve been staying with Vivian and her ever since I got here and the man’s house is truly a castle. It overlooks the sea and in the sun, it is a palace. But I feel it to be more a gilded cage. I think this is why I’ve become closer to Jocasta in the past week or so. She’s been the only bird in this cage for so long and now she has me. We keep each other’s secrets, you see. But she doesn’t know that I don’t tell her everything. And what I have told her is only the half-truth. You are far too precious to me to give away.

I’m cleverer than she, my love. I tell her that you’re my brother and that you’re deaf and that’s why I write. So she’s happy to mail my letters off even though that doing so might get her in trouble with Vivian. As cool as she appears to be in public, like all women, she’s a fool for familial sentiment. All but her own, of course. She no more thinks of Vivian as “family” as I would think the Queen my dear Auntie Lizzie.

She told me that Vivian has instructed her that I am very important and need to be kept watch over. He has assigned her to do this, thinking that I’ll be seduced as other men have. He’s no fool when it comes to her and she is a striking beauty. And so I act as though I am seduced and trying to hide it to humor him indirectly, to amuse her directly, and to win her over with the shadow of doubt that I might possibly be her lover in plain sight. It is a delicate dance, like a tarantella, a dance macabre. I miss dancing with you.

I don’t want you to doubt my love for you, despite all that has happened. Please trust me when I say that we are meant to be. But I will do what I must to get this plan to succeed. I so yearn to be happy. I yearn to be with you. And I have slept with Jocasta. But it is only a means to an end, my dearest. You know I must play the game to make this work and these are the unfortunate rules. She is adequate, but she’s no Sixsmith. There is no connection with her as there is with you. We are inextricably linked, you and I. No one could ever shatter that.

See about the lawyer, will you? And write to me here in care of Jocasta’s name. Don’t leave a return address. It will just tip the old man off. Write soonest, love. I don’t know how much longer I can put off the signing of these contracts and my head spins with the notion of reading them without a lawyer to interpret. I don’t trust any of Vivian’s attorneys to be honest, they’re Los Angeles lawyers, after all.

All my everything to you, now and always,

Robert

 

~080~

 

The shower wasn’t very generous in its room, but it had fit them both with a squeeze. One of the taps dug into Rufus’ ribs as Robert stood him toward the back of the cubicle and closed the door. “The water runs cold at first,” said Robert, “but it’ll be warm presently.”

If there was anything Robert was not in that moment, it was a liar. The liquid that came out of the shower head was nothing less than arctic and they both sucked in a reflexive breath. Robert laughed. “We should have started the water before we got in. It’s what I usually do.”

“Why didn’t we?” asked Rufus, shivering and holding a hand out in a hopeful manner under the spray.

“Because we were too eager to fuck in the shower,” replied Robert with a slow kiss to his face. “There. Here it comes now. It’ll be boiling in a minute.” He turned the other tap to blend hot with cold and the result was a steamy bath that had their skin red in moments.

They kissed for some time under the waterfall and their hands swept away rivulets and rivers along their curves as though they were jealous of all the skin the water got to touch. This time it was Rufus who took up their cocks and stroked them together. Again, he pictured Sarai standing just outside the door as Robert kissed water into his skin, along his chest, and suckled at his nipple grinning at him like a naughty angel. Rufus grinned back. He couldn’t help but grin at that shocked look on Sarai’s face. She would have been more shocked than the woman who had woken them both that morning. Not because it was her (then) husband with a man, but more that they were practical strangers to one another and who in their right mind would kiss any stranger naked and in that stranger’s shower stall? It was detestable. It was disgusting.

And Rufus grinned all the wider at Robert sucking him off in that shower, his hand cupping his balls. Sarai wouldn’t filthy herself with that act. She would have laughed in his face if he suggested it so he never did. Not in all their years together had he hinted at fellatio. She was happy with cunnilingus of course, that was alright, but no kissing afterward until teeth had been brushed… teeth had to be brushed… always. What was it about a clean mouth that she loved so fucking much? Or was it the dirty mouth she hated? Even when it was her own body that made his mouth so dirty? What did that say about how she saw her own body? Suddenly, Rufus pitied her.

Robert did something with his tongue that brought him around. He had it snaked just under the foreskin and was flicking his tip with it as he slid the foreskin over his tongue. “Jesus Christ,” Rufus gasped. “Fuck me, but you’re creative.”

Robert smiled and a trail of precum was swept away by the heavy mist of the spray. He stood. “How did you want me?” he asked, holding up a condom.

Rufus stopped himself to think. Staring into those eyes (Were they green?) he felt The Moment again. He leaned in slowly and placed his mouth on Robert’s, holding his stare. “I want you to take me,” he said at last. “I’ve never- And I’d wondered. Please?”

“You sure?” he asked. Rufus nodded. “There’s not enough room in here for me with you. Why don’t we actually shower and then get back to the bed? I want to take my time with you. And I want you to be comfortable.”

“Right,” said Rufus and Robert began to bathe him.

It was not perfunctory; there was no rush to get back to the bed. Rufus suspected that Robert was giving him time to back out, to reconsider the magnitude of what he was asking Robert to do to him. It was the invasion that all close-minded straight males feared: that a man would treat them the way they treated women. But Rufus would never treat a woman _that_ way and he had already shown Robert how he could care and how quick to adapt he was. Robert was simply being kind and as he washed Rufus’ hair in some fresh-smelling scented shampoo he watched him.

Robert’s eyes were focused on his task, his hands scrubbing away and trying to keep the suds out of his eyes as he stood there allowing his body to be bathed the way Sarai had to help him when he had broken his arm years ago slipping on the ice outside their Chelsea flat when they were first married. He disliked her touch; she was clinical like a nurse who had a thousand other bodies to wash that day thankyouverymuch and would you please cooperate? He learned to tolerate her once daily ablutions-by-proxy.

Robert was wholly different. His care was evident in every move he made and Rufus could do nothing but watch him, the barest tip of his delicious pink tongue trapped between his front teeth in concentration. He had a mole on the side of his face. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? It seemed rude that he hadn’t noticed something that he, no doubt, had kissed several times during their congress. He felt badly about that; he didn’t want to be a careless lover – even with a man he’d taken home from a club. “You can be so soft-hearted,” Sarai would say. She wasn’t that way. Never was she tender or soft and somehow Rufus seemed to like that about her. He admired her resilience. But then, he admired resilience in anyone. He liked Robert’s brand of resilience in the face of his ex-girlfriend just that morning. He remembered shaking his head and smiling. He knew that Robert would always be able to make him shake his head and smile.

“What?” asked Robert as he finished rinsing out his hair.

“What what?” asked Rufus, confused. He had brought him out of another reverie. Rufus blushed at the thought of ignoring this beautiful tender man in favor of raking up old thoughts of a woman who hadn’t cared for him ever.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked.

“You,” said Rufus truthfully.

“Why?” asked Robert.

“Because you’re beautiful,” he said. “Inside and out.”

Robert gave him a thoughtful look and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing their bodies close. He didn’t say anything but he wanted to, Rufus could see it.

_Say whatever it is, Robert. Just give voice to it._

Robert’s lips remained sealed and he pressed them to Rufus’; it was almost an unspoken apology. “Let’s to bed, love,” said Robert quietly. The water had gone cold.

 

~080~

 

“What are you doing here?” asked Megan.

“I’m your father,” said Rufus. “I missed you.” Megan stood there and stared at him with her mother’s malevolence in her father’s eye color. “May I come in?”

“Who is it, Megs?” asked Sarai. She came to the door wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Oh, Rufus. What are you doing here?”

“That’s what I asked him,” said Megan.

“I missed her,” he said to Sarai. “I missed you,” he said to Megan. Thunder pealed above their heads. “May I come in?”

Sarai gave him a critical glance and nodded her head. Megan sighed.

Sarai pushed a cup of tea under his nose and placed a plate of chocolate biscuits on the table. Megan took one and began slowly breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. Rufus took two sugars and stirred his tea, the clinking spoon making the only noise once Sarai sat. “Why don’t you go with your father?” she said.

Megan didn’t look up from the destruction of her biscuit when she replied: “Because I don’t want to. Edinburg’s too cold and I want to be with my friends on the holiday. Julie says her family’s going to Brighton. Why can’t you and I go to Brighton, mum?”

“And where does that leave your father?” she asked.

Rufus felt stabbed in the heart. He placed a hand over Sarai’s. “It’s fine. Just let her be.”

“You’re giving up already?” she asked him. She turned to their daughter and said, “Megan, your father’s come a long way to be with you today. Why don’t the two of you go out and do something together. Go to a movie or something.”

“I hate the movies out now,” she said. The biscuit was practically chocolate dust in her hands.

“Stop that,” said Sarai. “And sit up straight. And look at us, please.” Megan came as close as her pride would let her to following her mother’s instructions. “Now please,” continued Sarai. “Would you think of something to do with your father today? The whole city of London at your feet and you can’t think of anything?”

“I suppose we could go shopping,” she mumbled.

Rufus watched their exchange over the rim of his tea mug and said nothing. At the mention of shopping, he eyed Sarai who eyed him back. They both knew the financial damage that a twelve-year-old female could do and, for once, they were both on the same page. “No Harrod’s,” warned her father.

Megan rolled her eyes. “No dad,” she said. “No one decent shops at Harrod’s anyway. That’s for tourists.”

“Oh,” said Rufus.

“I want to get a vintage dress from the Thirties,” she said. “Pre-war if I can find one.”

Rufus and Sarai exchanged confused glances. Ever since Megan was born she had leaned toward things and behavior that were considered more masculine: climbing trees, playing with trucks instead of dolls, wearing baseball caps. She had expressed a dislike for dresses since she first started choosing her clothing in the mornings. Sarai used to despair that she’d become a lesbian. Rufus had suggested that at least she would be less likely to become accidentally pregnant. Rufus remembered that Sarai had given him a dirty look. She thought he was taking the piss; he was just being honest.

Now, here in the present, Megan’s face held something akin to eagerness at the prospect of wearing a dress. Both of her parents were dumbfounded. “A dress?” repeated Sarai dumbly.

“Not just any dress, mom,” explained Megan. “A Thirties vintage dress.”

“Where would one shop for a dress from pre-World War II?” asked Rufus.

“Here,” said Megan as she held her smartphone out for him to see. On the screen was a list of various shops in and around London, beginning with the closest one to their current location.

“How did you find all that?” asked Rufus.

Megan rolled her eyes. “Dad, it’s called the Internet. Look into it.” She put her phone away in her pocket. “Now,” she said. “Can we go?”

Sarai shrugged at Rufus. Rufus replied to Megan: “Yes. Get your coat. It’s windy outside.”

The sixth shop they visited that day organized its clothing by cut and style, to cater to the more historically-minded shopper. Rufus was glad for it. Their previous visits to the other shops resulted in a lot of head-shaking negatives when Megan boldly asked whether or not an item was from the Thirties or not.

“Why are you so fixated by the Thirties?” he asked her finally as she pawed through dress after dress on the round rack in the back of the store under a sign that read “1930’s”.

“It was after the jazz age but before the second world war,” she said as though that explained anything.

“And?” asked her father.

Megan turned to him, a wrinkle settling between her brows. “Daddy,” she said. “It’s when people were the happiest in this country.”

Rufus was nonplussed at his daughter’s observation. “I should think we’re pretty happy now,” he said finally.

“No we’re not,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied. For a moment he was going to leave it at that but the niggling feeling that he was missing an opportunity for explanation was too strong and he spoke again. “Your mother and I love you very much, you know.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked. He wasn’t used to her impertinence. He was just getting used to her dressing herself in the mornings before it all went awry with the marriage.

He heaved a sigh. “Nothing, I suppose. But it’s true nonetheless.” He watched her as she moved dress after dress aside. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

He placed a hand over the hanger hooks arresting her progress. She looked at him. “Our break-up wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that, dad,” she said. “It was mum’s.”

Rufus straightened himself in shock. “What- How do you-“ He couldn’t finish the question.

His daughter rolled her eyes again. “Dad,” she began. “I’m not stupid. I see things. I hear things.”

“Oh,” he said. His heart beat faster at the thought of Megan overhearing her mother and her lover making noises that no twelve-year-old had any right to hear. He had to be sure. “You hear things, do you?”

“Yeah,” she said. She looked pained when she added: “I felt bad that I didn’t tell you she had men over. But you seemed so happy when you got home. I knew mum was tired of you but I didn’t know how to tell you and you never really listened anyway. I’m just a kid. It’s not like I’m a grown up who’s had sex and can tell you about how to be married and what to look out for.”

It hadn’t happened for many months. A little of his old hatred for Sarai and her ways came through when he and Robert were making love, but he hadn’t really held any of the old vicious revulsion for his ex-wife in ages. He stood there dumbly staring at this beautiful child who didn’t want to really break her daddy’s heart but was a witness to her mother’s blatant indiscretions. He stood there and hated Sarai with every bone in his body. He hated her for ripping the family apart. He hated her for educating their daughter in the ways of sex through her own adultery. He hated the fact that out of the two of them it was this little girl who loved him the more and punished him the more when she chose to bite her tongue to preserve her father’s happiness.

He had never thought to strike Sarai. Even in all the time they spent de-tangling her carelessness, when she had admitted to lover after lover, she never once mentioned that Megan was spectator to it. He remembered asking Sarai about it too. “Oh she doesn’t know anything, Rufus. Don’t be stupid.” But Megan did know. And she knew enough to keep her mouth shut. And she did it because she loved him.

“You don’t want to come visit me?” he asked her finally. She shook her head and held up a navy dress with little cherries all over it. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to leave you behind again,” she said to the price label. Rufus saw a tear trail down her cheek. He took the dress from her and placed it back on the rack. Gently he turned her toward him and placed her head against his chest. “It hurts too much,” she sobbed. “I can’t do it again.” Her tear-stained upturned face broke his heart as she told him: “I can’t do it because love you too much. I don’t ever want you to go. I hate her but I love you and the judge said I have to live with her so I’d rather not see you or where you live or be away because then I’d just miss it. I can’t, Daddy. I can’t. Please.” She cried softly into his lapel. He covered her face with a gentle hand and held her to him, thinking of Robert and his own broken heart.

 

~080~

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Jocasta is proving to be quite the ally.

I’ve been asked to keep “Cloud Atlas” as part of the promotional version of the software. She says that Vivian has designs on selling the composition to a game designer for title music once I’ve signed the paperwork. You see why I didn’t want to trust him? You see now why I’ve asked for lawyers outside of his own to advise me? Thank you for doing that. I have written to them directly and Jocasta says she feels like a spy sneaking about. I hope I don’t exhaust her thrill at the espionage game.

It helps, I think, that she has fallen into my bed more than once since I’ve been here – she always comes to me, mind you – and has told me his secrets, whispers in the night. It’s nothing like your pillow talk my love, but somehow I feel vindicated that I’ve taken her in a fashion that he’s always wanted to. She says that the thought of him repulses her. Even on their wedding night she could barely tolerate his touch. They’ve slept separately for years. She’s such a fool for me I almost feel bad for using her like this. Almost.

I thought that I could somehow get a burner phone to talk with you, but Jocasta’s firmly against it and she is my only outlet to the outside world. I don’t know how else to communicate with you. It seems my romantic gesture is the only form of connection left to us. Please try not to worry. I will return to you. I need my own lawyer, that’s all. Then I can be with you again. I feel that I must alert the authorities before long. This cage has grown considerably smaller since my arrival.

I hope I get to see your face soon. The separation is killing me.

Yours,

Robert


	5. Patience and Truth

Rufus lay on his stomach, the scent of Robert’s shampoo saturated in the pillow. “I will begin slowly,” said Robert’s silken voice. His whisper was a compass point in the dark of eyes closed as he hovered above Rufus’ body. There was no touch, not yet, but the heat from his skin was palpable along Rufus’ back, buttocks, and thighs. “I want you to enjoy this.”

He felt a warm kiss against his shoulder and the touch of lips being dragged over his skin to his spine. Teeth. A small nibble. The press of tongue. “Thank you, Robert,” he whispered back. Rufus let out a slow relaxed breath as Robert’s mouth awakened his sense of touch. He had never felt so catered to. As Robert nuzzled into his back he could feel his beard rough against him and the tickle of what had to be his fringe. Heat spread into his groin as the slow progress southward was made. “Fuck, Robert,” he said. “This feels amazing.”

The wet press of his tongue found the top of his crack and Robert lapped there lazily, his hands bracketing his hips, massaging and caressing with whole hands one moment and fingertips the next. The mouth made its way over to the left first, tongue darting out for a lick, teeth scraping, until the sensation was cut off and repeated on the other side.

Rufus resisted the urge to get up on his knees. He didn’t want to anticipate too much and ruin the effect Robert was trying to create, but now he developed an acute understanding of Robert’s urgency to be eaten out and fucked before they went into the shower. It was almost unbearable. An embarrassing keening noise emanated from him unbidden but Rufus was past caring.

Then the mouth was gone. He felt the bed shift a bit and the bottle of lube was reached for as was a condom. He could hear the packet tearing and for a moment he felt terror thrill him. It was unfounded and Rufus struggled to find the answer for it. He was nervous, to be sure. He was about to be invaded in the single most foreign way any man could be, but it wasn’t just that. There was a loss of control here that he was acutely aware of.

He had been thrilled when Sarai took over their lovemaking at first, before he knew about all her rules and restrictions, before sex became a cloying thing that he couldn’t breathe around. She would be aghast if he were to enter her like this. She always had to face him when they made love. Rufus didn’t mind because it allowed him to enjoy the Moment that was so precious between them, but in the end it meant nothing to her. He should have taken her from behind just once. He should have put his foot down and told her he’d like to branch out. Would they still be together if he had, if he had tried?

Here he was about to be entered and not facing his lover. Here he was experiencing what Sarai had probably imagined. Was it the fear of pain? Rufus would have never hurt her just as Robert wouldn’t intentionally hurt him. He could still feel his kisses against his skin, his tongue probing deeper, licking at the back of his testicles and up into his crack, his hands separating the flesh of his buttocks. He worried that he was in a bad position. “D-did you want me up on m-my knees?” he asked him, his stuttering uncontrollable.

He felt the mattress move and soon the press of Robert’s body was everywhere as he laid directly over him, chest to back, cock to arse, legs to legs, arms to arms. Robert’s mouth was at his ear again. “What do you fear most, love?” Soft light kisses were planted on his face as he waited for Rufus’ response.

“I don’t know,” was Rufus’ honest answer. He wasn’t afraid of being violated because he was giving his permission. He wasn’t afraid of pain as all he had to do was voice it and Robert would stop. He trusted Robert. There was no reason for hesitation and yet, Robert had ceased in his ministrations to soothe him with the warmth and pressure of his body and his soft voice delicate in his ear.

“We don’t have to, you know,” said Robert. “I’m alright.”

“Shh…” said Rufus. “Don’t stop. Please. I want this.”

“Why?” asked Robert. More kisses came.

The easy answers would have been “because Sarai would hate me forever for it… because it would wash the stain of her away from my body… because I’ve got to get some revenge somehow”. But none of these reasons were about Robert and Rufus was suddenly horrified. “I’m so sorry, Robert.” He wanted to cry, to explain everything, but Robert just kept kissing him softly into his hair, along his ear. He smoothed his hands over the back of Rufus’ and interlaced their fingers.

“I had a feeling,” he said. “And it’s fine. It’s early yet. Why don’t you and I lie here and talk about anything? And if we drift back to sleep, that would be alright too.”

“I’m so sorry,” repeated Rufus. It was stupid of him but it was all he could think to say, Robert didn’t deserve to be his revenge against Sarai any more than anyone did. Robert moved off of him and Rufus rolled to face him.

He made to apologize again but Robert pressed a finger to his lips. “I don’t care. It’s fine.” He kissed him. “Only do me a favor: if ever you need to talk about what the hell it is that drove you into my bed, tell someone you trust and know well. I think you need to talk to someone. You’ve got that look about you.” He moved a pillow closer and nested himself inside of Rufus’ arms, face to his chest and Rufus closed him in, his arms wrapping around a strangely perceptive stranger.

Rufus let his eyelids close as his thoughts drifted. Why did he feel so close to this spirit? He was entirely bold and carefree and yet, completely receptive to the subtleties in people. Lying there in the bed with him was all Rufus needed to feel sane. How was that possible? Slowly, he felt his hatred for Sarai fade. It dissipated with the creeping dawn and Rufus was made weary with its departure. There was finality to it. Rufus knew his hatred for her would never return as long as Robert was around. Here was his shelter. Here he could be strong.

His heart contented, he promptly fell asleep in the morning’s soft light, Robert cradled in his arms like a babe.

 

~080~

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Vivian is suing me. Something about a breach of trust. I haven’t a clue. I need money to retain an attorney. Can you send me some? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I will be good for it as soon as I’m able to cash the advance cheque his bank drafted me – provided they haven’t stopped payment. The only problem is: I still can’t get out of this house.

I’m truly scared now - all pretense aside. Jocasta has abandoned me after a terrific row between Vivian and me. She’s probably just frightened of his wrath. And he is wrathful, my dearest. This is the last letter she said she’d send for me. After this I think I’ll have to be silent.

I long for your arms. Do you remember when we fell asleep on that first morning together? How natural that felt? It frightened me at the time. I did my best to hide it, went so far as to try to push you away, but you are undeniable to my heart.

I miss the comfort of you. I need that now. If I close my eyes I can still imagine the smell of you, the feel of the sheets, the warmth of us in that bed. Oh if they’d only let me come home! I’d hold onto you for the rest of my days and I swear I’d be happy. I wouldn’t look for anything else.

I feel as though I’m writing a letter that soldiers write to their sweethearts or mothers back home in case of their deaths. I’ve been contemplating death lately. Not acting, mind. Just thinking. I don’t know what happens after death, but I’m certain that there are religions out there that got some of it right. We begin another life after this one, a reincarnation. Perhaps that’s why we connected so deeply so fast? Perhaps that’s why my heart and soul long to be with yours again? Because that’s the way it’s always been. We’ve always been together. And we will be again. I can feel it.

I’m sorry to cut this short, but Jocasta has only given me so much time to write before she’s off to town to drop it off. I’m terrified that these words won’t get to you. But if they do, please know Sixsmith, that I will see you again. In this life or the next. Sooner rather than later, with any luck.

I love you.

Yours under the Corsican stars,

Robert

 

~080~

 

“I met someone new,” he said to her hesitantly.

“Really?” she asked. “Is she nice?”

“She’s a he, actually,” he said. He waited for her reaction. He had no idea what she’d say. He looked at her thinking about it as they rode the tube back to her mother and the life she had been handed.

“Is he nice to you?” she asked. Her eyes were on the parcel in her hands. In their dedication to all things old-fashioned, the store had wrapped her dress up in brown paper with a bit of string around it in a bow. It was the navy with the cherries on. She picked idly at the string ends.

“Yes,” said Rufus. He waited again.

After a while she asked him: “What’s his name?”

“Robert.”

“Do you love him?”

“I think I might,” he said. “Yes.”

She blessed him with a tight smile. “Will I get to meet him?”

“When he’s back in town,” he said. Relief bloomed in him. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Sure,” she said. “What does he do?”

“He’s a computer programmer and a composer,” he said.

“That’s cool,” she said. “When will he be back?”

“I don’t know,” Rufus answered. “I hope soon. He’s gone to America for work.”

“You miss him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” he replied. “But he should be back soon enough and then we can come to London and take you to lunch or a show or more shopping. Would you like that?”

She nodded. Looking at her parcel again she thought a moment and said: “I won’t tell mom if you don’t want me to.”

Rufus thought about it. He didn’t want to place Megan in a position of keeping things from her mother. He would not intentionally be deceptive. He wouldn’t use Megan like that. “Only tell her if she asks,” he said.

He didn’t want to be too forthcoming. He smiled a little at the thought of Megan being the one to break the news to her. He imagined it would happen casually over breakfast and then the phone call would come from Sarai all hot and red in her speech, indignation covered in righteousness. “At least I slept with men. How could you?” she would shout at him down the phone line. And he could counter with: “Well you seemed to be having such a great time; I suppose I wanted to know what all the fuss was about!”

He chuckled.

“Dad?” asked Megan. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” he told her and smoothed a hand over her hair. She was so strong, so wise beyond her years. “I love you, you know.”

She leaned into him and sighed. “I love you too.”

 

~080~

 

There was a pile of mail sitting on his desk and Sixsmith rifled through it again. This would be the third time he was looking for any sign of Robert. But it was all promotions for this or adverts for that. None of it was useful to him. He told himself that Robert was alright even though the last letter was dated more than two weeks ago.

He picked up his phone and unlocked it. He stared at all the apps and wondered if he could call the authorities in California so they could investigate Robert’s whereabouts. Would they even listen? He had heard horror stories about the American police and how ineffective they could be. Besides, Robert was a grown man and Sixsmith was no relation. They probably wouldn’t listen.

He flipped to his camera’s photo log and called up the three pictures he had managed to take of him. Robert hated having his picture taken but his face in the afternoon was beautiful beyond compare. He had been so lost in thought that Robert was only aware after he had snapped it that he had taken the photo at all. Sixsmith smiled. That wild hair was tossed up by the wind, the sun was at his shoulder, his eyes were focused on something in the distance but they were clear.

His thumb moved across the screen and there was Robert looking back at him. He had walked too far up the path on the way to the museum and he had caught him just right. All he did was call his name to get him to turn. There was more tenderness in that casual glance than in all the years of marriage he had suffered. There was a smile to follow too, but he had been too fast on the button to capture it. It was a pity.

The next picture was distorted, fuzzy. He had fallen asleep and the evening moonlight had just hit his face. Robert’s subconscious didn’t like to be photographed either and he moved just as the picture snapped. The result was a ghost of sleep echoed on the pillow, an angel come to rest, vanished but not quite gone. It was a blur of perfection, imperfectly captured. It was by far Sixsmith’s favorite.

He kissed the image. “Where the hell are you, my beautiful boy? Come back to me.”

 

~080~

 

He was subtly aware of a hand around his cock and his hips canted in response. A warmth enveloped his right nipple and he realized that Robert was awake and pleasuring him softly as he dozed. Rufus closed his eyes and felt…

Beard stubble and the slide of the hand, the smell of that fresh clean shampoo, the wrap of a hand around his buttock, the tickle of the hairs there as the hand passed over them gently, fingertips probing his crack. Rufus raised a leg and placed his knee on Robert’s hip. Mouth moved to his suprasternal notch, lips idly, gently, sucking at the skin. The press of something wide and warm up against his testicles, sliding against his thigh and resting there: Robert’s leg. The sensations continued wrapping Rufus up in the business of imagining the physical layout of their bodies beneath the duvet and he fell into the peace of Robert’s touch, eyes closed and trusting.

Robert had been clever: his hand, the one at Rufus’ buttock, was slick with lube and Robert spread the wet all along Rufus’ opening and crack. He felt the press of a finger and relaxed. As the tug came against his cock, the press let up; as the hand slid back down and his hips canted back, the press became more significant. It was a sinuous see-saw sensation and the pattern of it was hypnotic and automatic. Rufus relaxed a bit more and was breached.

It was just the tip and it slid back out with another canting undulation. It slipped back in on the next pass. There was nothing urgent or rushed about this. There was no fumbling either. It was no secret that Robert knew what he was doing in the bedroom, but to actually experience it, to feel his masterful hand directly was an experience verging on an honor.

Soon the press was constant and Robert’s finger remained inside of him, sliding along his warmth. Rufus felt its presence and clenched around it as though sussing it out, his body trying to determine if it was friend or foe. Soon the pressure became accepted. And then it was gone, withdrawn completely. Rufus wanted to open his eyes to argue, but chose to wait instead.

The hand was snaked underneath his scrotum, his hole sought once more and attained, this time from the front. Again there was a press, again an entry, and once again that familiar pressure that remained a strange but accepted presence, like a shabby room with a new table at its center. And again the finger was gone, this time replaced by the press of two fingertips, slick and ready.

Rufus pressed down against them by instinct and soon found himself breached once again. He lowered his nose into Robert’s hair and breathed and swayed with the rhythm of his slow fuck. The reasons for wanting this faded away. Rufus didn’t care about hurting Sarai anymore. He cared about allowing Robert to love him, letting him explore his every portion, taste every fiber of his being. Rufus let go and let Robert _have_.

There is an old song sung by the crooners of yesteryear with a lyric about angels asking the singer, now newly deceased, what the greatest moment of their life was. Rufus’ mind had chosen that moment to weave the lyric into his thoughts: “And when the angels ask me to recall/ the thrill of them all/ I shall tell them: I remember you.” Because when his life finally did end, Rufus would have an answer for his angels.

This was the Moment that the Moment was supposed to be about. There was no need for the look of it. It was about connection, to be sure, but it wasn’t about long gazes into each other’s eyes. It was about two hearts seeing each other.

In times past, Rufus would have needed the Moment to determine the magnitude of how much he was loved so that he wouldn’t give too much and therefore wouldn’t be hurt as much when the break-up came. But there was no Moment here. Rufus didn’t need to see Robert to know that he loved him. He simply knew he did. And for the first time in his life, Rufus didn’t give a damn about whether or not Robert loved him back. It wasn’t necessary. He knew that anyone who could be so tender, caring, compassionate, sexy, raw, primal, and generous wasn’t to be doubted.

As the slow lovemaking continued and, as their soft breathing became more erratic; as Rufus whispered Robert’s name and Robert whimpered in response; as both men hungered to bring the other pleasure through touch; the more Rufus stood convinced that what he felt was real, remarkable. It was history in the making and something that he was willing to die for. Through his tenderness it became obvious to Rufus, whether Robert accepted it or not, he was in love with him. Rufus only had to wait for him to realize it.

 

~080~

 

A postcard dated fifteen days after the last letter arrived on a Wednesday. There was nothing on the back but Sixsmith’s address. It was written in the same scrawl that he had come to know and love. The opposite image was of the beaches of Malibu.

Sixsmith collapsed in the foyer and cried.

 

~080~

 

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked Robert. The din in the little café was invasive as they sat opposite each other, bent over their soups. It was cold enough that the temptation of soup and shelter drove them in after a brusque walk from the museum. They weren’t the only ones with the same idea. The trouble was that the shop was small and the wind was cold and the food was wonderful so the place was overcrowded and they had to shout a bit to be heard by one another even though they were only two feet apart.

“I don’t know,” said Robert, tearing up his bread roll and dipping it into his soup. He ate like one famished even though it had only been a couple of hours since their luncheon on the monument. He stared hard-eyed at Sixsmith. “I think I should be, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, making himself a bit smaller so a large patron could squeeze between his chair and the press at the deli counter. “But I don’t think you should be angry with me forever and send me away.”

“Oh? Why not?” asked Robert.

“Because you’d miss me,” replied Sixsmith cheekily.

Robert paused and a small grin was tucked quickly away toward his soup. “I suppose I would,” he admitted.

“Do you love me, do you think?” he asked. Robert’s head came up, stunned. Sixsmith fumbled with a rephrase of his question: “I- I mean could you? Do you think? Do you… perhaps… if it’s possible?” He felt so mealy-mouthed. He didn’t know why he had asked such a question, but he wished he could have had the conviction required to ask it. He half expected Robert to stand up and leave him forever simply due to his lack of confidence.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. He was still staring at him the way a man stares down the barrel of a gun, knowing full well of what it was capable. His jaw flexed with chewing as he thought.

“I only want to know of the possibility,” clarified Sixsmith.

Robert straightened up and gazed at Sixsmith as he had done that morning when he chewed his egg and considered his trilby, head cocked to the side. “Sixsmith,” he said. “Anything’s possible.”

Sixsmith smiled but he knew that Robert had no idea how much he needed it to be.

 

~080~

 

Sixsmith shook off the cold and climbed the stair. He had a plan to sit on the monument on a Sunday morning, smoke a cigarette, and sip his coffee. And then he would let Robert go.

It had been six weeks since the blank postcard. He couldn’t hold on to a single weekend forever, could he? The snow had built up along the edge of the ledge and he brushed it off with his sleeve. He sat and perched his feet on the opposite side. His trilby was no match for the cold and he had substituted a woolen cap that he was sure Robert would have approved of.

He had also grown a beard. Presumably it was to keep his face warmer, but it made him feel different. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed people looked at him differently. He was glad for that. He wanted to cast off the old Rufus and the Sixsmith of Robert’s invention to create a self for himself. He didn’t consider himself so far above it all to not take a page from Robert’s book about labels: they didn’t really matter. In that spirit, he felt free. He could always thank Robert for that sense of freedom.

He saw his job less and Megan more. He wandered about Edinburgh alone, reacquainting himself with the city, learning her rhythms the same way Robert had learned his. He took things slowly and didn’t look for excitements or distractions so much as he became more curious about things. If he wondered what the Catholics were up to, he took himself to mass. If he wanted to hear the call of the heather to the sky, he drove to the highlands. If he wanted to ponder humanity he found himself a pleasant corner in a small tea house that faced the great black castle and considered all the blood sweat and tears that had necessitated its construction.

The only times when Robert’s memory bothered him was when he was just drifting off to sleep or at sunrise. Those times were the hardest to navigate. He always felt that there should be something more to those seconds as they ticked away, either just before sleep took him, or just after he awoke. Sleep was mercy. Work was mercy. They tore him from his saddened mind and let him focus on something else.

Robert was a ghost now. If he thought hard about him, he could barely picture him anymore. The photos in his phone were more and more alien by the day. He couldn’t hear the timbre of his voice. He looked at them again in his phone on that grey cold morning as the wind whipped past his fingers. They were buried in the middle of the list, pushed farther and farther back by pictures of him and Megan, work-related photos, or of pictures he thought Robert would like.

He called up the first. It didn’t even seem real anymore and he enlarged it to focus on the face of the man, how the light hit his hair and cheekbones, how the color of his eyes were obscured. He zoomed back out and hit the delete button. In a blink it was gone, replaced with the next.

The delete button was easier to push on that one. It had gone fuzzy when he zoomed in and almost could be considered an accidental photo of a stranger who had turned at just the right time. He zoomed out again and looked at the face. He used to see something there, some tenderness. Now, there was nothing. It disappeared in a flick.

He stared at the last picture for a very long time. His coffee had gone cold, forgotten in his hand. He tore his eyes away and looked at the kiss of morning over the city. She was a bride on her wedding day, covered in white and blushing pink. Her grey stones were covered over by her trousseau; the trees of the park were coated with ice and dazzled like diamonds in the fresh light. Everything was dead and hibernating and held such promise. He looked to the ghost picture again, turned off the phone, saving it, and put it in his pocket.

He didn’t want to forget. He wanted to make new memories.

“Come home, Robert,” he whispered to the virgin bride. “Come back to me.”

 

~080~

 

He got Megan’s text a little after ten on a Wednesday night.

_Any word from Robert?_

_Nothing yet. Will let you know if you want._

_How long has he been away?_

_Two months._

There was a pause long enough for Rufus to start dozing as he lay in bed, book in his lap, phone in his hand. The Malibu postcard sat on his bedside table in front of the Hollywood one.

_Will you call him?_

_He doesn’t have a phone where he is. So he can’t text either._

_Can’t you fly to California?_

_When? With what money?_

_Can’t you do anything? Waiting’s much too hard. Perhaps you can find someone else?_

_I’m not in the mood to start dating. And by the way, why are you awake this late on a school night?_

_Dad… I’m not a baby._

_You’re my baby. Go to bed._

_Fine. I love you._

_I love you too, Megan. Get some rest. As soon as I hear from Robert I’ll let you know._

_OK Dad. Goodnight. I hope he’s ok._

_Me too. Goodnight._

 

~080~

 

It was an independent film and the theater they were in was small and very dark. They had chosen seats toward the back and felt like randy teenagers when the lights went down and they exchanged glances. Robert took Sixsmith’s hand. Robert didn’t speak but during the sensitive scene where the lead confronts her mother on her deathbed about her sexuality Sixsmith thought he heard him make a noise. Not wanting to embarrass him he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Robert biting his lower lip. He heard the desperate dialogue but watched the emotion play across Robert’s face as he slowly turned his head. Sixsmith squeezed his hand. Robert looked at him with a tear coming down his face. Sixsmith kissed him and thumbed away the tears. “Shh…” he whispered. “It’s alright.”

Robert nodded and kissed him back. He nosed his face into Sixsmith’s cheek, seeking refuge in his warmth. Sixsmith flipped up the armrest between them and wrapped his arm around him, cradling his neck with his free hand. Robert held his wrist and rested a hand on his knee, making small soothing circles. They watched the rest of the film like that, Sixsmith pressing kisses into Robert’s fringe occasionally.

Outside the theater it had rained and the street smelled fresh and renewed as they strolled down the concrete, leaves scattered and stuck to its surface like layers of _papier mache_. “You’ve never told me about your parents,” said Sixsmith.

“We established a deal a long time ago: I don’t talk about them and they don’t talk about me,” he replied.

“I see,” he said and let the subject go. They strolled along and came to St. Andrew’s Square. “Shall we go for a coffee somewhere? I could use a warming up.”

Robert stood in front of him suddenly, hands in his pockets, hunched over – his usual stance when facing something uncomfortable. “I love my mother very much but she’s a staunch Christian, you see. My father’s dead and she thinks it’s all my fault. I came out to them as gay, not realizing that there were more than two choices, and the next week my father had a massive stroke and died at the kitchen table. He was only sixty.”

“I’m so sorry, Robert,” said Sixsmith.

“So she prayed and prayed for me to get well,” he said and laughed. “Get well! As if I had a pox or something. Shit.” He broke out his cigarettes, lit one, and offered it to Sixsmith. He took it and Robert lit another for himself. “She has no idea. Months later I asked her: Mum? When did you decide to be heterosexual?” He took a long drag. “She told me not to be vulgar.”

He walked along ahead of him and Sixsmith let him go, let him have time and space. Parents were always difficult. His own were in a little cottage in Dorset and he wouldn’t have troubled them with his sexuality choices for the world. It was really none of their business anyway. But should Sarai find out. Lord help him, should Megan find out… he didn’t want to think about it.

He caught up with Robert where the path met the circular one that went around the pillar and they walked to the little coffee shop on the other side in silence. As they were sat there in the relative warmth of the overhanging shelter Sixsmith let him know about Sarai and Megan and his own parents. Robert listened in silence, alternating doses of nicotine and caffeine. “Your situation sounds ideal,” he said.

“I don’t know how ideal it is,” he replied.

“No really,” Robert insisted. “Look: you have the luxury of keeping all this under that awful trilby of yours. I saw the panic that went through you at the museum. We’ve hashed that through, but honestly, when it comes right down to it, you can walk away from all of this. You get to pretend it never happened because no one of significance knows about me or your attraction toward me. I’m jealous.”

He seemed perfectly calm about it all, but Sixsmith had a feeling that he was seething still. It hadn’t escaped his notice that after their first public kiss it was Robert who suggested the deli and the film and that they should walk to both places hand in hand. It was like a test. Sixsmith had hoped he had passed it, but he could still sense Robert’s resentment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I can technically walk away from this unscathed.” He drank the rest of his coffee and tossed the cup in a nearby bin. He leaned in close to Robert and said: “But here’s the truth: I can’t just walk away from you. I can’t. I need you. I need this- this- whatever this is. You make me happy and excited in a way I never thought I could be. I wanted to see you again today because you make the world brighter. I don’t pretend to understand it because I don’t leap and then look. I’m the careful and cautious type, always have been. But you make me think I can conquer mountains. You get me excited and calm me down all in one go. I can’t explain it, Robert.

“But please understand that there’s a bit of a learning curve for me. You’ve told your parents about yourself. I’ve never felt the need to make such a declaration. And my parents… God. My parents are still trying to wrap their heads around my divorce. They’ve been married for 35 years. They’ve never had troubles, never considered giving up. But then, they never cheated on each other either. They don’t understand Sarai’s betrayal. They don’t understand the end of love. I have no idea if they will be able to understand the beginning of love – this kind of love-“

“Love is love, sweet,” interrupted Robert. “There is no wrong or right about it. There are no different kinds. It’s not like flavors in a sweet shop. Love simply is.”

Sixsmith leaned back. He smiled at Robert. “Then maybe they will understand.”

Robert beamed at him. “Only wait a bit, Sixsmith,” he said, finishing his coffee. “It’s not even been twenty-four hours yet. This could still be termed as a fling.”

“A highland fling,” muttered Sixsmith. He caught Robert’s eye and they both laughed.

 

~080~

 

“You son of a bitch,” Sarai spat down the phone line. “How dare you.”

“Hello, Sarai,” replied Rufus. “Good to hear from you. How are things?”

“Don’t you pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she said. “Megan says his name is Robert. So what? You’re trolling the gay bars these days?” He was impressed by the fact that it took Megan another week to keep that information from her mother. He was proud of her for that.

“No, Sarai,” he said patiently. He wanted to hang up on her but he knew her; she’d just keep calling. “Robert is my lover. He’s wonderful and good to me and I’m happy.” _And he’s been missing for weeks now._

There was silence on the other end. A small part of Rufus had hoped that his bold declaration had physically killed her. “I have no idea what to say,” she said finally.

“How about: good for you, Rufus. I’m glad you’re happy, Rufus. Best of luck, Rufus?” he said.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” she said. She didn’t sound glad. She sounded exhausted.

“I know it’s difficult to take, Sarai, but I think you should think about it this way: it’s none of your fucking business,” he said. “Doesn’t that make it easier?”

“But Megan-“ she began.

“Megan was surprisingly supportive of it all,” he said. “It’s good to know we’ve managed to raise a good-hearted child, despite everything.”

He could feel Sarai go still on the other end of the line. “Be careful, Rufus,” she said sadly. Rufus thought she might be crying.

He said: “I will, Sarai. I’ll be fine.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said and rang off.

Rufus held the phone to his ear a few long moments after she had gone. He lowered it and looked over at his cork board which had Robert’s letters tacked to it. “The Kiss” caught his attention. It had dried out and was a bit wrinkled around a couple of edges but it didn’t make a difference. It just looked so cozy. The two figures wrapped up, safe from the cold, away from prying eyes, their blanket a gold cocoon. It spoke of the safety he longed for, the love he needed.

“Where are you, you fucking ghost?” he wondered aloud and realized that he was crying.

His soul revolted at the idea that someone who wasn’t in his life could have such control over him. He had broken away from Sarai’s hold on him; he didn’t want to go from one prison to another. He couldn’t afford to care about him anymore. These letters and cards weren’t Robert. At least, they weren’t the Robert he wanted. They were a remote transmission of a voice that had long since gone silent. No more.

In a fit of pique, he ripped down the letters, ripped down the postcards, went to the bedroom snatched up the cards, and threw all of it in the bin in the kitchen. He pulled the bin bag from the bin, knotted the top and threw the whole thing outside in the bins for the garbage men to collect. He collapsed onto his bed and gave himself over to his grief.

 

~080~

 

Sixsmith suggested they seek shelter from the sudden rainstorm at his place. It was a bit closer than Robert’s and Robert suspected Eleanor of wanting to gather what few things she had left at his place while he was out. “Aren’t you afraid that she’ll break your things or nick things that aren’t hers?” he asked.

They had paused under the shelter of the doorway to Sixsmith’s modest home while he fiddled with the key in the lock. The door always stuck in bad weather. “No,” he said as he leaned against the doorway. “She’s not that vindictive.”

“She sounded like she could be.”

“She’s not,” he said, looking off to the street. Sixsmith regarded him out of the corner of his eye and opened the door. Robert caught his eye as he entered and reiterated insistently: “She’s not.”

“Sarai would have been,” said Sixsmith.

“Sarai is petty and selfish,” said Robert and in a way, he had a point. From all that he had told him about her, he could understand how he would have gotten that impression. But he didn’t know her wholly. He was only speaking about the Sarai that had been manifested from the stories of a slightly bitter divorcée. He never heard the story of how they met and fell in love. He never told him about the time she tried to bake him chocolate chip biscuits from scratch and got the salt measurement wrong and he ate them anyway and smiled because he loved her. He never spoke about the day Megan was born and what they cooed to each other over her squishy newborn face, all the promises they made to her new life, all the hopes they had for her future happiness.

Saddened by this recollection, Sixsmith put the kettle on.

“What’s this?” asked Robert as he came back into the sitting room where he had left him. His hair was still dripping a bit at the fringe and he slicked it back with one motion as he peered at the photograph framed on the wall.

“Those are the stars over Corsica in the Mediterranean,” he replied.

“I’ve never seen so many,” he remarked awestruck.

“You’re joking,” he said. “You’ve traveled the world gathering sounds for your program and never bothered to regard the skies above?”

Robert shook his head. “I should have, I suppose. But it just never occurred to me. I was too busy wondering how much money I had left and where I was off to next. And now that I’m home again and have the time… well. The London night sky isn’t like this.”

Sixsmith stood just behind him and Robert leaned back against him, taking Sixsmith’s arms and winding them about his waist. “Now,” Robert said, “if I had had you with me during the journey I probably wouldn’t have been so scattered. I would have slowed down and looked about occasionally.”

“That’s what inspired me to take that picture,” said Sixsmith.

“You’re joking,” said Robert, turning his head to face him. “You took that? When?”

“It was my gap year; before Sarai, before everything,” he said. His voice had a far-off quality. Robert’s nuzzling nose brought him back. Sixsmith smiled at the sensation and said: “I was there to help build homes for the island’s poor, but we had plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. We had had an idea to go camping in a little village just south of where we were working in Solenzara. We had had a rollicking game of footy and we were exhausted and fell asleep quite early. I awoke in the middle of the night, looked up, and saw all of that. It was too beautiful to not capture.”

“I want to go there with you,” Robert said. “I want to camp with you under the Corsican stars.” Sixsmith placed a soft kiss to Robert’s neck. “I want to look up after making love to you on the beach some sultry summer night and see all that above me, feel the turn of the earth beneath me, hold your hand… and feel loved.” He chuckled to himself. “Is that a load of romantic twaddle or what?”

“I think it sounds perfect,” he said. “And for the record: you are loved.”

 

~080~

 

A day after the garbage men had thoughtfully taken the remembrances of Robert away, the post came and Sixsmith nearly choked on his tea. There was a postcard. Dated ten days ago with marks all over the back to say it was re-routed here and there because of an obvious smudge to the address line, it was enough to rip his heart from his chest. The front of the card declared “Visit Sunny Malibu” in oversized letters. He read the scrawl on the back while holding his breath:

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Not dead yet. My only strength is the thought of you.

Yours,

Robert

 

~080~

 

The Chinese takeaway down the street was a very good one, so pronounced Robert as he had a second helping of mu-shu pork. Sixsmith watched him gobble down like he hadn’t eaten in an age and was uncertain as to whether or not he would ever eat again. “You eat like a man starved, Robert. Slow down, will you?” he said, passing him a napkin.

Robert wiped at his face. “Sorry,” he said. “Used to be that I was a starving artist before I learned code.”

“I see,” said Sixsmith. “And this behavior is left over from that?” Robert nodded and took another bite. “Musician?”

“Worse,” he said over his mouthful. “Composer.” Sixsmith winced. “Also it probably didn’t help that I was couch-surfing at friend’s flats as well. Never did repay half of them. When this deal goes through, I shall do so. Remind me.”

Sixsmith nodded. He felt like Robert’s personal assistant. It was nice to feel needed. “And you currently supplement your income by?” he asked.

“Writing code for those that can’t,” he said. “I work mostly freelance for different companies doing different things. I know a little about a lot and it makes me fairly valuable. And I get to work from home quite a bit, so that’s good.”

“And when you were travelling, you were working for all these companies all over the world during the day and finding music to record in the evenings?” Sixsmith asked.

“Just so,” said Robert. “I don’t do well chained to a desk. I learned that the hard way.”

“I can’t picture you chained to anything,” said Sixsmith.

“Imagery that we can both agree on, my dearest Sixsmith,” said Robert.

Sixsmith chewed thoughtfully for a moment before asking carefully: “Does that include people?”

Robert stopped again in mid-meal, just as he had done when they had their soup. “I don’t like the idea of belonging to anyone. But…”

“But?”

“But you aren’t looking to hold me down, are you?” Robert asked.

“And ruin you?” asked Sixsmith. “Never. I like- no, I’ll say it: I love you as you are: free, unfettered, wild. A dreamer, that’s what you are; a dreamer with just enough guts to go off and do something about his dreams. I love that about you, Robert. Nothing holds you back. I would hate myself if I ever held you back.”

Robert kissed him. “Thank you, Sixsmith.” They remained physically close, hands filthy with the food, and kissed each other lazily. “And the thing I love about you is your caution. You’re so good about being careful, aren’t you? Completely respectful of everyone’s feelings around you, you never consider your own feelings first. You’re always worried about the other fellow. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as selfless as you.” He smiled at him. “I expect that at least once you’ll shake your head and smile when I’m gone and I tell you of what I’ve done. I expect you to think me mad, but in a good way. Do you think me mad for going to London to sell my distribution rights?”

“No,” he said, kissing the plum sauce from Robert’s lips. “I think you’d be mad not to. You’re so talented, Robert. Go. Do. I only wish I could go with you.”

Robert smiled. “I wish it too.” He pulled away from Sixsmith and looked at him hard. “Why don’t you? Why don’t you come with me? Take some time off of work – you are the type that always works – and come along? London’s beautiful this time of year.”

“London’s freezing this time of year,” said Sixsmith. “No, darling. No, I can’t.”

Robert sighed. “Then I shall write you.”

“What?”

“Every time I’ve got a chance,” he said, “Every day, if I can. I will write you. And you will follow my chronicle like entries in a diary. You will be my captive audience to my dream-chasing madness and you will shake your head and you will smile at the same time. Just like you’re doing now.”

Sixsmith realized he was right. That was his precise reaction to Robert’s schemes. He didn’t mind in the least.

“And that is why I love you: because you shake your head, but you also smile,” he said simply and fed himself another bite.

 

~080~

 

_Heard from Robert. A post card._

_What did he say?_

_That he misses me and he’ll be home soon._

_What took him so long to write you? And why only a postcard?_

_The card got lost in the mail. Address was smudged. And only a postcard probably because he didn’t have a long enough piece of paper._

_But it’s good that he’s written._

_True. And now to bed, you. School night._

_Already was in bed. Your text woke me._

_Ah. Sorry then. Back to sleep, baby._

_Love you, Dad. And I know Robert loves you too._

_Thank you darling. I love you as well. Let’s hope Robert comes home soon and safe._

_I’ll send up a prayer._

_Cheers love. Me too. Goodnight._

_Night Dad._

Sixsmith stared at his phone. _And I know Robert loves you too._ The ache deepened in his heart. What would he tell her if Robert never came back? How could he suffer his child’s heart being broken because she knows her daddy’s heart was broken?

_Robert, what have you done to us?_

 

~080~

 

They collapsed into the bed after the Chinese takeaway had been eaten and cleaned up. Robert’s kisses had been flavored with plum sauce and Sixsmith tasted him deeply as he hovered over him. His fingers wandered into his hair and Sixsmith couldn’t get over how soft and thick his tresses were. “You are so damn beautiful, Robert,” he murmured to his lips. “How did I get so lucky?”

“You flatterer,” he said and pulled Sixsmith closely on top of him. He wrapped his legs around him and they kissed and caressed each other, taking ages to reacquaint their bodies with one another, as if being separated by clothing all day had caused them to develop amnesia. Hands clasped with one another, gliding over skin and skimming across ribs and hips as they moved against each other, rolling and pitching in their own private ocean.

Sixsmith leaned over and kissed along Robert’s ribs, licking at every freckle and blemish, moving across and nibbling at that nubbin of flesh rosy and waiting for him. “Am I better than she was?” Robert asked him.

Without hesitation Sixsmith replied: “You’re better than anyone.” And he kissed the truth of his statement into Robert’s skin. “I have never loved like this,” he admitted. Robert’s fingertips moved through his hair, around his ears and down his neck to his back, lazy long strokes that made the gooseflesh rise and Sixsmith’s cock get hard as he kissed his way down Robert’s long lean torso to the thatch of thick black hair. He blew hot air into it and inhaled Robert’s scent. His hands moved to the outside of Robert’s thighs and he nuzzled against his balls, licking and kissing there idly until Robert moaned his name and he knew he had to kiss his cock.

He took a look up before he did and was rewarded with the sight of Robert splayed out like food at a buffet: rosy, ready, and delicious. Peripherally he noticed that Robert’s lips matched the color of his cock tip as he placed his own lips to it. The flesh was warm with the heat of him and stiff with his passion. He kissed the frenulum as he would have kissed Robert’s lips, the two sharing not only the same coloring, but also eliciting the same moan of pleasures from Robert. Sixsmith sent his tongue licking over the tip and Robert whimpered a needy “Please.”

He picked it up by the base and placed it in his mouth, drawing from what instinct told him and from what he liked for himself. Lips, tongue, a hint of teeth: all worked in concert until Robert’s back arched and he begged to be entered. Sixsmith was all too happy to indulge him. Condoms and lube were utilized and Sixsmith smiled into Robert’s face as he pushed in and found his home.

Forehead to forehead they ground together, tromboning in tandem, both men loving without words, connecting without desperation. It was natural; nothing was forced. Sixsmith wasn’t looking for the Moment anymore. All moments were the Moment with Robert. He’d be a fool to think it otherwise.


	6. Hurting and Healing

My Dearest Sixsmith,

I have had enough adventure for one lifetime and I never want to return to this god-forsaken country again. Let the whole of California fall into the sea. The people here are tiresome and angry and yet can smile with such perfect tranquility as to make it macabre.

Vivian is no longer an issue. The police are questioning him now. They keep asking how I am and they never leave me alone. Even as I’m writing this to you I’m seated in an interview room and there’s a rather swarthy police officer standing guard at the door. I suppose they think I’ll try to commit suicide.

Of course, they did find me in the sea this morning. Fortunately Vivian’s neighbors saw him on the beach brandishing a weapon and called for the police. It had started out fine enough: Jocasta had suggested a swim for the three of us, no business discussion, just us. Vivian was reticent probably because he suspected I was shagging his wife, but more assuredly because I was refusing to sign off on any contracts until I could have a fresh set of legal eyes peruse them. He’s a right bastard, I can tell you. He was alright until he made some silly excuse to go back in the house and came back out with a knife in his hand. He’s completely mad. It was then that I knew the magnitude of the mistake I made coming here.

And if I’m honest, I’m a fool. I should have never left England. Hell, Sixsmith, I should have never left your bed! (I so want to think of it as “our bed”. Is that wrong?) I wanted fortune so badly I traveled half way across the earth to make money. Now I’ve got to spend what little I have left to go back to the beginning.

I had such plans! Once I made the money, I was going to see a bit of this continent and then perhaps South America. But I’d have sent for you. Would you have come with me? You didn’t even come with me to London. I hope you would have come. Exploring the deserts of America wouldn’t have meant anything without you. And by “exploring the deserts of America”, I certainly meant going to Vegas.

Ah well… they’re going to call for me soon to double-check my statement and for once, I’ve decided to tell the coppers the truth: I’m a ne’er-do-well composer who writes code to support himself. I’ll also confess to my overdue television license and my three library books that I’ve no intention of returning if it’ll get me the fuck on a plane back to you.

I hope you are well. And please don’t worry about me. I can handle Vivian now. It’s Jocasta I’m worried a bit about as she’s the collateral damage in this. Poor dear is too scared of Vivian to go home with him and she knows I haven’t a farthing. She’s caught and she’s struggling. If anyone should be watching out for suicide attempts, I think the cops should be watching her. She’s the one who’s lost.

All I did was swim for it when I saw him. I got so far out that the police sent a rescue boat to pick me up. I was exhausted and half drowned by the time they caught me. They thought I wanted to die. All I wanted to do was go home to you. Apparently I kept saying “Let me go home. Let me go home. Let me go home.” I don’t exactly remember. Between the fatigue, the stress, and the adrenaline, I was a bit delirious. I didn’t mean for them to think of it as a suicidal chant, they just did.

So here I sit, under suicide watch. It’s just ridiculous, really. Don’t they realize that I have you as my constant to keep me sane? You are my Corsican north star.

Yours,

Robert

 

~080~

 

He hadn’t been in that club since Robert and it felt like a transgression going in there in the first place. It felt like cheating. It also felt like moving on. Sixsmith didn’t much care what he took home that night: man, woman, something in-between. All he needed was escape, freedom. Just for the night to cling to someone that was real and not just words on a page. Robert’s letter had arrived two days ago and was dated a week before that but it was too much too late. On the one hand, he was thrilled to hear that Robert was alive and well. On the other he hated it because he felt fettered to a wraith, obligated to wait on a man who was away at war. Wasn’t one of Robert’s letters like that? He said so in the letter: he felt like a soldier writing home for the last time.

He put the beer to his lips and looked about the club. The music was pounding as before, the room just as dark. He thought he spied the same curly-headed brunette in a different booth across the room as he sat beside that first night. There were a few people dancing, but it was early yet. He’d know them when he saw them. That was how these things worked, right?

He sat in a booth that commanded a sweeping view of the room and waited. He had all the time in the world.

 

~080~

 

Sunday morning found them wrapped around each other, a patch of sunlight warming their toes. Sixsmith let wakefulness creep over him bit by bit. First his nose smelled that clean vanilla mixed with Robert. Then his ears picked up on the twittering of birds and the slow passing traffic outside his window. His house was at the corner of a main street and a side street and he was happy for the non-intrusive sounds that were softened so as to become white noise. He felt Robert heavy beside him. He heard his breath, felt it on his chest as he felt the slight tickle of his hair on his arm and breast. He knew if he lowered his head toward the scent and the tickle, he’d collide with the top of Robert’s skull and he smiled at having someone he loved so much so close.

He began to wonder why he loved him. It had been a little more than a day and he was completely emotionally compromised. He was never so foolish before. It was unthinkable. And yet, here they both were, trying like hell not to love one another, but getting no choice in the matter. It was bliss.

He moved warm hands over warm flesh to discover that his arm was trapped beneath Robert’s head and his fingers tingled. He tried to slip out from beneath him without waking him, but Robert stirred and Sixsmith froze in place. “Morning, love,” said a muffled voice.

Sixsmith buried his nose in Robert’s locks and kissed him. “Good morning, sweet boy.”

“Did you want your arm back?” asked Robert.

“If you please.”

Robert lifted his head obligingly. Sixsmith hunkered down under the covers and laid on his side to watch Robert’s face in perfect repose. “You are so fucking beautiful. It’s like watching one of the heavenly host sleep.” Robert smiled. “You have the most beautiful eyelashes. Painted there by God Himself, I’d imagine.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you minx,” he retorted. One green eye peeped up at him and closed again.

“I’m going to kiss you everywhere today. I’ve decided.”

“I thought we were going to see dawn break over Scott’s Monument,” said Robert.

“Well we’ve missed the crack of dawn,” said Sixsmith, “but it was a lovely idea while it lasted.”

“Have we?” said Robert. “Oh well. We can always catch sunset. That’s my second favorite.”

Rain hit the window pane outside and Sixsmith frowned. “We may have been rained out today, my darling.”

“I know what we can do,” said Robert. He stretched his lithe body into a taught line as he stretched, arms raised, toes poking out from beneath the duvet, back arched. He relaxed with a grunt. “We can fuck. The whole day long. Just fuck. And then we can eat if we want and then sleep and then fuck some more. What do you say?”

“It doesn’t allow for much culture, or intellectual conversation,” said Sixsmith.

“True,” said Robert as he kissed that spot on Sixsmith’s neck once again. “But perhaps we can make time for that between when we’re looking for places to fuck one another that we haven’t before.”

“I insist that we get fresh air at some point,” said Sixsmith. “It isn’t healthy to be in all day.”

Robert made a moue of disappointment. “Right. We’ll go out to get the post.”

“A coffee. Post is dropped off just inside the front door.”

“A coffee,” repeated Robert. He took a moment and whined: “But we’ll actually have to dress.”

“And most likely shower,” said Sixsmith.

“Mmm…” said Robert. He smiled. “I like showers with you.”

“Then you’ll love baths even more.”

Robert picked himself up onto his elbow. “You have a soaking tub?” Sixsmith nodded. “Ohhh…” said Robert and his kissed him, lingering his tongue over Sixsmith’s lips before diving in to reward him for the best news he’d heard in an age.

 

~080~

 

_Hi Dad_

The message had been there for twenty minutes. She must have wanted to text before bedtime again. He looked down at his phone and decided to send her a message back. It’s not as if the patrons in the club minded.

_Are you still up?_

_Yeah. What took you so long?_

_I’m out. Didn’t see your text until now. Sorry._

_Out with Robert?_

Even in a text her voice sounded hopeful.

_No. He’s still away. Got a letter from him the other day. He’s doing well._

_Good! So he’ll be home soon?_

_He didn’t say. He wants to be home._

_He needs to do better than letters. He needs to ring you._

_He can’t. It’s too expensive and he needs all the money he can to get home._

There was a long pause after this. He could hear Megan thinking.

_What about Skype?_

_What?_

_Skype. The free internet website that lets you video conference. If he can get to an internet café or something he can Skype. Accounts are free._

_I don’t think he knows about it. How am I supposed to tell him? I haven’t any address I trust._

Here there was an even longer pause.

_Then I don’t know Dad. Sorry._

_It’s alright baby. I’ll muddle through. And Robert’s a big boy. He can handle himself._

_I hope you’re right._

_I am._

_When he gets back he’s going to hear it from me about not staying in touch with you._

_Megan…_

_Dad! He’s hurting you. You can’t expect me to say nothing. You’re my dad._

_Megan, we’re grown-ups. You’re not. You will keep a civil tongue. If there’s any telling off to be done you can be sure I’ll do it. Alright?_

Another pause then:

_Alright, dad._

_Goodnight baby._

_Goodnight dad._

He pocketed his phone with a grin and looked up to see a man coming toward him. He recognized him as one of the two men Robert had been flirting with that day they met. “Hello,” he said. “May I join you?”

Sixsmith smiled.

 

~080~

 

The water was steaming hot and soapy when they slipped in, Robert between Sixsmith’s knees and leaning against him. Sixsmith cupped the water and let it pour over Robert’s chest and shoulders. A nose nuzzled his hair and for once he wasn’t reminded of Sarai and what she would and wouldn’t allow. The realization of this was shocking because he’d spent a lifetime wondering what Sarai would have approved of and where she would balk or worse – laugh at him. He hated her derisive laughter. It was more scalding than the water they were sitting in, making their skin rosy.

Robert twisted around in the bath, his buttocks breaking the surface of the water, nymph-like, and indeed Robert seemed to be one of the fae on that pleasant morning. His eyes glittered with mischief yet un-managed and on his mouth was a secret smile. “Do you know I had the most curious dream last night?” he said as he kissed a faerie footprint path along his collarbone.

“Did you?”

“Mmm…” he said. He laid himself sidelong against the middle of him, his head pressed to his shoulder, one arm wrapped behind Sixsmith. “It seemed to be taking place long ago on a ship. We were there, you and I but we didn’t know each other as lovers. It was strange. I knew your face better than my own, practically, and yet we weren’t intimate. It wasn’t a dream so much as a statement of who my brain thinks we are. It was as if my heart were telling my brain: ‘No, no he’s ours. He belongs to us.’ And my brain was having none of it.”

“Sounds more like a nightmare,” said Sixsmith, idly pouring more hot water over Robert’s bare hip and arm in an effort to keep off the chill of the room.

“It was quite pleasant,” said Robert. His eyes were closed. “I had you and you had me, but we weren’t lovers, merely friends. We liked each other. We just didn’t have sex.”

“Then it was a tragic nightmare,” said Sixsmith and he kissed the lips on the sleeping face.

Sleepy eyes awoke lazily and he said: “It was as though we’d been missing each other for centuries over and over again. As if we are meant to be together no matter what, only Fate kept intervening.”

“The silly cow,” said Sixsmith and Robert giggled.

“She is silly,” said Robert. “It’s as if she doesn’t know we’re together no matter what.”

“You really do love me, don’t you?” asked Sixsmith.

“I’m terrified to admit it,” said Robert.

“I am too,” said Sixsmith. “What is all this anyway?”

“I don’t know, love. All I do know is that I like where I am and who I am with you.”

“As do I. We seem to balance each other, don’t we?”

Robert smiled and nodded. The press of lips that followed was slow, filled with the sound of flesh pressing and moving in water, softly, gently. Sixsmith could feel Robert’s hands glide down him, fingertips brushing his stomach and hips, along his thighs and the back of his hand brushing the inside of his leg to his manhood. He lifted his leg, letting the cool air kiss his steaming knee as Robert’s hand wrapped around his cock, sliding along it.

“I still want you to… you know,” said Sixsmith as they watched each other’s faces and Robert brought his cock to full attention.

“If you like, Sixsmith,” he replied.

Sixsmith closed his eyes and leaned his head against Robert’s forehead. “Please,” he breathed.

 

~080~

 

“So how have you been?” asked the stranger. Sixsmith realized that he didn’t want to know the man’s name. It wasn’t important. “I haven’t seen you in here since Robert scooped you up. You two split?”

Sixsmith nodded. The stranger laughed. He had a nice smile, Sixsmith decided, that would help. “I can’t say that I’m sorry,” he continued. “You did look a bit lonely. Are you up for some company?”

“Why else do people come here?” Sixsmith replied.

The man grinned. He held out a hand. “I’m Henry.” Sixsmith shook his hand and gave his first name. He didn’t plan on remembering the man’s.

The music picked up and Sixsmith recognized it as one of the ones that had played weeks before. “You want to dance?” asked Harry… or was it Henry? Nevermind.

“Sure,” he said and they both made for the dance floor.

 

~080~

 

The next postcard was from New York. It had the Statue of Liberty on its front and looked as cheesy as the first postcard that had come from London. Sixsmith didn’t read it the whole day long. He stared at it like a dead thing propped up on his kitchen table between the salt and pepper shakers. He didn’t want to know what was on the other side. But he ached to know. He had spent the better part of a week trying to forget him, trying to put him behind him.

It took him three days to crack and on a Sunday morning at dawn he trudged to the top of Scott Monument, card in his pocket, coffee in his hand and read it on their ledge.

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Have been waylaid in New York for the time being. My funds got me here, your funds will get me home. Tempting to stay though. Many good music and software companies here. May pop in to one or two. Wish me luck?

Your Robert

 

~080~

 

Six more beers in and Henry/Harry/Howard became a blur of smiles and touches, giggles and gropes. Sixsmith got his dick sucked in the gent’s and then the obliging stranger was off to parts unknown. Sixsmith was too drunk to care about him. He sat on the toilet and closed the door.

He felt empty, used up, exhausted. He resolved to call into work the next day. He never used his paid holidays but he truly felt he needed to this time around. Perhaps he’d go somewhere that didn’t remind him of how empty he was. London was a possibility, but even as he decided he could hear Robert’s voice pushing him not to be so safe about it.

“Shut up,” he muttered to no one.

Outside the club he wrapped himself up against the chill and walked home. It wasn’t too far, but it was far enough so that by the time he got home, his fingers were frozen trying to unlock the door and his feet were numb. He sat before his electric fire for a few hours until his bones warmed and he began to drift off to sleep.

He felt the rise and fall of the ocean in his dream and wondered what sea Robert was sailing that night.

 

~080~

 

It was a matter of a moment for Robert to climb on top of Sixsmith in the bath and take both of their cocks in his hand. Sixsmith moaned lasciviously into his mouth as Robert captured him in another kiss. There were few things Sixsmith learned to enjoy more than the sight and feel of Robert on top of him. He imagined the moment when Robert finally entered him would be the penultimate of those experiences. As with his first sexual experience as a boy of sixteen, he knew nerves would take a large part in this new awakening he was slowly preparing himself for. He wasn’t afraid but there was something about being entered that made his heartbeat quicken; it wasn’t fear – it was anticipation.

He loved the feel of Robert. The merest touch of his skin was enough to send lightning travelling up his limbs and blood rushing toward his cock. And there was the Moment, of course. It was strange now to consider it because its meaning had been stripped away. There was nothing left but the experience of being in the same space with him, laughing at his jokes, appreciating his talent, admiring his inner strength.

As Robert stroked them slowly and the tension built up inside of each of them, Sixsmith was reminded of what he had said once before when he had begged to be entered and Robert had done, only he used his fingers instead of his beautiful cock. Robert had said that he’d needed space to work and time. That meant the bed again and so Sixsmith was contented to luxuriate in the feel of Robert’s hand against his throbbing member, to taste of him, and to feel the butterflies that stirred in his stomach whenever he pictured Robert above him loving him completely.

 

~080~

 

She came skipping up the walk and he wrapped her in his arms and picked her up. Her giggle and “Put me down, Daddy!” was what he was waiting for before he set her feet to the snowy pavement and smiled down at her ruddy face.

“How’s my girl?”

“Great,” she said.

“Really? Any good news you want to share with your old man?” he said, turning and leading her to the car he had hired.

“His name is Daniel and he’s in the year above me,” she said sotto voce. She waved grandly to her mother who stood at the door and waved back.

Sixsmith waved too and then turned to her. “Is he kind to you?” he asked as they got in the car and buckled up.

“Yeah,” she said. “We listen to the same music and watch the same films. He’s really into Star Wars but only before Lucas messed with it.”

“He sounds like a good man,” said Sixsmith. “You have my permission to marry.” He pulled away from the kerb with a quick blow of the horn and headed carefully down the road toward the M-3.

“Dad!” she said, making a face. “No thanks. I’m never getting married.”

“Oh?” asked Sixsmith. “Because of mummy and me?”

“No,” she said. “Not exactly. I just don’t think it’s for me. That’s all.”

“Right,” he said. “Well thanks for that actually. You’ve just managed to save your mother and me a lot of money.”

She stared out her window and replied matter-of-factly: “You’re welcome.” After a long thoughtful look out she asked: “Where are we going anyway?”

“To Dorset to your grandparents,” he said. They lived in a little village called Preston near Weymouth. It was very pleasant there in the summer as the sea was within walking distance, but in the winter everything was closed down and shut up, including the residents.

“Oh,” she said. She looked glum. There was plenty to do in Preston in the summer. Megan could never see the sense in going in the wintertime.

“Now don’t be like that,” he said. “It’s your granddad’s birthday tomorrow. And besides, they love you very much and want to see you. You know the winter’s harder for them to get around.”

“I know,” she said. “Did you bring him a present?”

“I thought I’d bring them you,” he said.

“Dad,” she said reproachfully. “That’s a crap way to treat your father. You didn’t get him anything, did you?”

He looked at her with a mock expression of shock on his face. “What? Do you think granddaughters grow on trees or something? You were very difficult to obtain, you know.”

She chuckled and shook her head. As their car found the M3 she finally got up the courage to ask: “How’s Robert?” He had been quite silent on the subject of Robert for days now and she sensed he probably didn’t want to talk, but like all girls her age, she was very protective of her father and wanted to see him happy.

“I got another postcard from him,” he said. It was the Statue of Liberty that reminded him of Megan. She was stronger than he had been at her age and twice as bright. As soon as he read about Robert’s wanting to perhaps stay in New York for a time, he had thought of her at once. He hadn’t seen her in some time and he did need some time away…

“Oh?” she prompted, her eyes on the road ahead.

“Yes,” he said and fiddled with the environmental controls on the car. “Is it too hot in here for you?”

“Take your hat off, Dad,” she said and reached up, picking the trilby off his head. He had no idea why he had even put it on before leaving the house. He looked at it in her small hands, saw her pop it on her head and lower the visor so she could admire the look of it in the mirror.

“It’s too big for you,” he remarked.

“I think it looks fine,” she said, turning her head this way and that to see all of herself in such a tiny mirror. “See?” She turned to him, holding it onto the crown of her head and tilting her chin up.

It really did look fetching. Sixsmith smiled. “No you may not borrow it.”

“I didn’t ask to,” she pouted. “And why are you wearing it anyway? It’s too cold out for this hat.”

“I’ll have you know that hat is a classic,” he said. “It’s timeless and weather-less and climate-less.”

“Does Robert like it? Is that why you wear it?”

“Robert hates it,” he said. “And I wear it because it makes him smile.”

“Then you should wear it always,” she said. She had more of a touch of the romantic about her.

 _She gets that from me_ , he thought.


	7. Past and Presence

He lit a few candles he had around and placed them along the shelving that served as a headboard for the bed. Robert placed the lube and condoms out on the bedside table and was waiting naked on his knees for him to come back to the center of the bed. “How like a Vermeer you are by candlelight,” remarked Robert. Sixsmith grinned.

He knelt at his knees and watched Robert’s skin glow and flicker like the candles. “And you… Caravaggio, I think.”

“Really?” he asked looking at his limbs. “I’ve been staring down this face in the mirror since before I can remember and I would have thought I’m more of a St. Sebastian by one of the lesser-known artists: Dolci or even Perugino.”

Sixsmith shook his head and laughed. “You are far too steeped in art for me to follow you. I’m a simple scientist, remember?”

“I remember,” he said. “But you are half-mistaken: there is nothing simple about you.” He kissed him, stretching his body upward and carrying Sixsmith with him. Warm skin met and the kiss deepened and enveloped them and mixed with caressing hands gliding, tracing fire over one another.

Robert was true to his word: he took things slowly and Sixsmith melted; he drew sounds out of Sixsmith through touch and the anticipation of touch he could never have thought possible. He had never ached for something so badly in his life. All he knew was that the dizzy waves he was drowning in were more than welcome: they were overdue. It was as though his body had known how neglected it was and wanted the care and attention Robert was giving him more than it wanted oxygen. Indeed, more than once Sixsmith found himself at a loss of breath either because he was holding it or that he forgot to inhale. He was simply that caught up with the sensation of everything.

There was nothing rough about Robert’s lovemaking. Once again, with the same care he had taken on their first night, Robert had proven himself sensual and creative. First he had Sixsmith on his back, then on his knees with his arse in the air, then he let Sixsmith feel his hardness as he knelt above him, guiding his prick along Sixsmith’s arse crack and giving Sixsmith the feel of riding him without the penetration.

It was during this position that Sixsmith felt he had to say something. “Robert, my love, please come inside me. Please let me sit on you. I’ll do it slowly. Please.”

Robert shushed him with a single finger over his mouth. Sixsmith’s eyes took over, pleading his case. Robert smiled and shook his head: no. He guided Sixsmith off him and directed him onto all fours. He wrapped his cock and kept the lube close at hand. Then he bent over Sixsmith’s arse and went to work.

Sixsmith’s body responded instantaneously and without permission either from Robert or its owner. His chest met the mattress, his head and arms the pillow, his back arched, and his legs spread. It was instinctive and Robert hummed his approval into the kiss he placed on Sixsmith’s hole. Sixsmith could feel the quake of it along his spine and the gooseflesh spread.

 _This_ , he thought. _This is where I belong. This is who I belong to. No one else._

And just as the thought left his brain, he felt the pressure of fingers at his opening. He took a deep breath and tried to calm those butterflies.

 

~080~

 

“There she is!” exclaimed Sixsmith’s father. The gentleman held out his arms and hugged the girl tightly. Sixsmith thought he looked good for sixty-five and retired. At least his mother hadn’t killed him yet for being underfoot.

“Rufus,” said his father. “Good to see you, son.” His voice was a bit mournful. Sixsmith wondered when the grieving for his dead marriage would end. “Come inside and warm your bones, man.”

The house was as it had always been: a bit too cluttered with knick-knacks for his taste. A vague thought crossed his mind that all those figurines would come to him someday. He shuddered at the thought. “Rufus, my love,” said his mother hugging him tightly and then holding him out at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Oh dear. Entirely too thin. Come into the kitchen. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make some bacon sarnies.” Sixsmith shot his father a hopeless look and his father shrugged and ushered them into the warm kitchen.

It only took a moment of his mother blustering about before each of them had a mug of tea each, a plate of biscuits, a dish of scones (fresh baked this morning) and jam to go with them (or treacle if you like, dear, but they didn’t), and finally the promised bacon sandwiches with plenty of brown sauce. He had forgotten how like a whirlwind his mother was.

“Tell Gran and Granddad all about your school, sweetheart,” said Sixsmith. He hadn’t meant to look as though he was deflecting, as though the subject of his personal life was off-limits to his parents, but at this stage, it sort of was.

Megan knew it too and gave him a small malevolent look before volunteering about the marks she had received at the end of term. “Oh how clever you are, my darling,” her grandmother exclaimed. “Your father was very good at maths and sciences but when it came to history – pfft! Not a single clue.”

“Thanks, mum,” Sixsmith muttered.

She waived a hand at him to shoo him out of the conversation and chattered away to her granddaughter about classes for next term, and did she know any of her teachers, and on and on. Sixsmith drank his tea in silence, pausing only once to lean over unobtrusively to his father so as not to attract his mother’s attention and whispered: “Happy birthday, dad.”

His father chuckled. “Thank you, son,” he said. And they both watched mother grill her granddaughter about her plans for after school. Sixsmith had never seen his daughter look so overwhelmed.

 

~080~

 

The postcard had an image of Caravaggio’s “David with the Head of Goliath” on it. It was part of the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art in New York.

My Dearest Sixsmith,

I’m a fool to think myself half the hero of my own life as this boy opposite. I am no David. Goliath has defeated me.

I miss you. I miss us.

Robert

 

~080~

 

It wasn’t as intimate as the last time and Sixsmith tried to relax into it. Robert was two fingers in before he couldn’t stand it anymore. “I need to see you, love.”

“Am I hurting?” he asked.

“No. I just-“ he pushed up onto his elbows and moved himself off of Robert’s hand. He collapsed on his side and held out an arm for him. Robert gathered up the bottle of lube and lay opposite allowing himself to be wrapped up and held closely. Sixsmith buried his nose in Robert’s hair and carded his fingers through; he was so thoroughly touchable. Tilting his head up he kissed him and apologized.

“If you’re nervous-“ began Robert.

“No I’m not nervous. It just seemed too impersonal, is all. I want to do this _with you_ , not have you do this _to me_. Does that seem strange?”

Robert kissed him so slowly he thought he was avoiding the question. It was only after it ended that he realized that Robert was answering it. He spoke anyway: “No Sixsmith. In fact, I would say that that sounds like something you would consider. You are the most intimate man, thoroughly sensual. I do love that about you.” He kissed him slowly again and Sixsmith savored the feel of his mouth against him. “Let’s try this like last time, shall we? And then I’ll mount you facing front.”

Sixsmith pressed his forehead to Robert’s, caressing away his heavy fringe. “That sounds perfect, love. Thank you.” Their languid kisses filled whole minutes as they relaxed into each other again, a concert of sweet sucking wet pops serenading their hands as each man caressed the other mapping and re-mapping all the dips and curves along each other’s skin until Robert’s found Sixsmith’s loosened hole and delved in again.

Once again Sixsmith raised his leg and the lovemaking became familiar. There is a danger of positions becoming commonplace between lovers, each always knowing what the other prefers to make them comfortable or to get them in the mood, and the danger is the boredom of routine that results. But then, there is the thrill of a lover knowing what the other prefers; the knowledge that one being on this earth bothers to remember one’s likes and dislikes and facilitates without selfishness barging in; it becomes an honor bestowed, respect given, and love shown; it was that way with Sixsmith and Robert. There was no boredom that surrounded adopting the same mode of lovemaking than before. It was simply a sign of mutual love and respect and Sixsmith’s heart swelled with the feeling.

When Robert hit his prostate Sixsmith gasped aloud. His eyes cast about the room for a safe place to land; they found Robert’s. His face wore an expression of a man watching a hot air balloon take flight: awe mixed with a little trepidation about the safety of the passengers. “I’ve got you,” he whispered to Sixsmith. “I’ve got you. Right here. That’s it, love. Right here with me. Good boy.” Their kiss was a grounding force and when Robert brushed against that sweet spot again, the scene was reenacted.

Sixsmith’s cock swelled hard and he yearned for release. If he hadn’t Robert’s sweet words in his ear or his eyes to look into or his kiss to provide him with a focus, he was sure he would burst from the ecstasy. It was yet another thing to be grateful to Robert for.

 

~080~

 

Even though she seemed older than her years, Megan was still a twelve-year-old child and after lunch and the overwhelming barrage of questions from her grandmother and the glance through the old family album pictures and the dessert trifle Gran had made for Granddad’s birthday, she curled up on the sofa on her Gran’s knee and went to sleep. Sixsmith’s mother laid a careworn hand over her brow and picked up her knitting. “You boys take a walk while she rests. We’ll be fine,” she instructed. And because no one argued with Mother, they put their coats, gloves, and scarves on and walked outside, along the road and down to the beach.

Sixsmith’s father wasn’t so bad off health-wise that he didn’t get about. He was 65 that day, but was hale and hearty and made the very walk they were making practically every morning, barring severe rain. They walked along the shore in silence for a bit before Sixsmith’s father broke it: “Everything alright in bonny Scotland?”

“Fine,” he said. He paused to light a cigarette.

“You’re smoking again,” he said. Sixsmith had forgotten that he had lied to his father about quitting last year. He only smoked when he was under stress and last year he hadn’t the heart to tell him that Sarai and he were quits. He met his father’s worried glance sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, dad,” he said. “I’ll put it out.”

“No,” he said. “You need it or you wouldn’t have lit it. What’s wrong?” His father was always the one that was so perceptive. His mother would sigh and dither and flit about, but his father was always the grounding force for him.

His father’s concerned gaze was a comfort but Sixsmith was careful not to shock him with the unvarnished truth. He must have taken too long to decide what to say because his father added: “Look, I know losing your marriage was difficult. Lord knows you were invested. I worried for you when you married her and I worry for you now. Please, son. Just level with your old man, won’t you? I’d consider it a birthday gift.”

Sixsmith stared at him as he rested his fatherly hand against his shoulder. “Why did you worry when I married her?” he asked.

“Well,” his father said as they stared out at the water, “I didn’t want to ruin your happiness, son, but I never had much faith that the girl loved you. I’m glad you made a go of it; that you had Megan, but I always did wonder why you married her in the first place.”

Sixsmith burst into laughter. His father continued: “I also wondered why you hadn’t divorced her sooner.” Sixsmith shook his head and his father joined him in his amusement.

The laughter died off, soon replaced by the sound of crashing waves and gulls on the wind. “Are you very lonely, Rufus?”

“Oh dad…” Sixsmith began. “You know I was really lonely when Sarai wasn’t there for the first few weeks.”

His father nodded. “It’s always lonelier when you know there’s love close at hand but you just can’t reach it.”

Sixsmith glanced at his father. His eyes were fixed firmly on the horizon, but he could sense there was a story behind that statement. He would have to remember to ask him about it one day. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I feel lonely now, in fact.”

“Someone you fancy?” asked his father, smiling at him hopefully.

“It’s complicated,” muttered Sixsmith.

“Oh that’s good,” said his father. “If it’s not complicated it’s hardly worth it. It’s the things that are too easy that should cause suspicion. If you don’t have a good row every now and again… well. It’s just boring.”

“You and mother have rows?”

“You mother is excellent at making it up to me.” A sly smile passed his face and Sixsmith could feel himself blushing.

“Jesus, dad,” he said laughing.

“So, can I ask about this… person?” asked his father delicately.

“His name is Robert Frobisher and he’s a computer programmer and composer and he makes me happy,” he said. It felt good to say it all at once like pouring water from a bucket. He felt lighter.

“And he makes you sad,” replied his father.

“He’s been away. He’s been gone for more than two months – almost three - and shows no sign of coming back. Every time I try to put him behind me, another letter or postcard arrives. It’s getting tedious.”

“Do you love him?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Sixsmith winced. “And dad, the homosexuality doesn’t upset you?”

His father laughed. “You really don’t remember, do you?” Sixsmith was confused. “Timothy Palicconi. He was a little Italian lad who used to summer with his grandmother over here when you were little. You were inseparable.” Sixsmith recalled a dark-haired boy with light eyes. How could he have forgotten? “Caught you kissing him once in the back garden.”

“You what?” he asked.

“It was a chaste little thing. You boys were only about seven or eight. He was explaining about how his mother kissed his father and you were doing the same. It was actually quite adorable. I broke it up gently before your mother could see, before she could forbid you to be with the boy. I’m afraid it would have shocked her greatly. To my knowledge you’ve never kissed a boy since.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Sixsmith. He wracked his brains for the memory, but all he could come up with was suntanned skin, light eyes, and an easy smile.

“Probably because you didn’t find it shameful,” said his father. “You have a good open caring heart, Rufus. You get it from me.” He turned to his son and put an arm around him. “I only hope I haven’t given you a legacy that will harm you in the end.

“And don’t worry about him. Love will endure if it’s true. Hang in there.”

 

~080~

 

It arrived in the next day’s post, postmarked Boston, Massachusetts. It had a picture of the Boston skyline on the front.

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

I hope you still read these. Loneliness is an insidious disease. I'm sorry if I have afflicted you with it. I'm sorry for everything, really.

Was there a Poet born?- but now no more,

My wand'ring spirit must no further soar. (Keats, I think.) 

Robert

 

Sixsmith re-read the last two lines over and over until his head ached. Robert had hinted at dark thoughts before, but this held too much doom even for his spirit. Sixsmith put his head in his hands and hated that he couldn’t reach him. He needed to reach him.

 

~080~

 

The soft ministrations continued and Sixsmith fairly melted under Robert’s tender care. Using slow and careful movements, Robert hovered over his lover, watching him intently for any sign of regret or distress. Sixsmith felt sleepy, calm, and pliant under Robert’s hands and was easily pushed onto his back, knees up. His confidence was soothing and Robert was inside of him before he knew.

There was pressure, which he had anticipated. But there was also the sensation of being full, as though all along he had been walking around an empty shell, incomplete and yet thinking he was whole. And with the going and coming of the pressure, as Robert worked his way into him, he knew he would love the entire experience of this. Then Robert was seated within him at his deepest, hanging above him, staring at him, waiting for him to relax. Sixsmith began to realize how desperately he had hoped for this. He knew Robert would be careful with him, to the point of tenderness, but he hadn’t realized that he would look so affected.

Robert watched Sixsmith carefully, his face carrying the expression of someone who is carrying a glass on a tray and would be horrified to spill one single drop. He barely breathed, he was being that careful. “I want…” he started in a hushed tone.

“What do you want, love?” asked Sixsmith, breathless himself.

“I do love you, Rufus,” he said reverently. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

Sixsmith smiled. “I love you too. And I’m ready. Go on then.”

The slick sounds of their lovemaking were heady. Sixsmith rocked gently with the motion, encouraging Robert with sweet words: “beautiful boy, lovely boy, gorgeous man, take what you want, I’m yours, do as you please, lover, sweet boy, fuck, yes, Robert oh god Robert Robert RobertRobertRobert…” until they trailed off into moans when the power of speech was past him.

He burst apart between them as Robert continued to chase his bliss. Sixsmith watched him work between slitted eyes. His fringe flapped back and forth as the intensity inside of him built up. He was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, his long torso pumping in a steady rhythm, his black thatch of hair pressing time and time and time again against Sixsmith’s balls and flagging erection. Sixsmith held his torso with one hand and brushed his fringe back with the other. Robert brought his eyes up to Sixsmith’s.

And then he came.

A gurgle of Sixsmith’s name blended with an exhale of sound punctuated the air. With a few quick thrusts it was over and Robert supported himself on shaky arms, panting, dangling a sweet kiss over Sixsmith’s mouth that he had to lean up to take. Slowly he came down to lay on him, pressing cum between sweaty flesh and relishing the taste of him who had brought him so much pleasure.

A thought entered Sixsmith’s head: It was a genuine honor to be fucked by Robert Frobisher.

 

~080~

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

You were right. I was wrong. There. I’ve said it. Or rather, written it. You were right when you told me that my happiness could be found only in your arms. You were right to tell me not to stray too far. You were right to tell me to be careful. And you were right to tell me that I was scared. I’m a fool and I’m so sorry.

I’m sitting in the airport wanting to fly back home and I needed to send you this before I did anything. You see, I have no idea how long it will take me to get back to you or if I’ll even decide to do that because I feel I don’t deserve you anymore. I’ve been an idiot and I’ve been so lonely and I can’t see that you’ve had any patience with me at all after us being apart for so long.

I think the biggest trouble is not being able to communicate very well with you. I feel as though I’m casting notes into the sea whenever I write to you. I have no idea what shore they will reach or if, indeed, you are even still reading them. I think I should have burned every letter and postcard by now if the roles were reversed. I wouldn’t blame you if you have.

My only prayer is that you read this one - just this one. Don’t burn it before you read it.

I love you. I never meant to be away this long. I never meant to hurt you with the distance and time of it. But I feel I have. I cannot continue with you this way. If I were to come back now, I think I would find a cold reception and that is something that I cannot stand to see. Not from you. I never want to see the cold look in your eyes, the icy ‘hello’ you’ve probably been preparing. It is for that reason that I’m saying goodbye.

You shouldn’t expect any more letters from me after this one. But if I know me (and I do – even better than you, dearest heart), I shall weaken and probably send off postcards now and again. I hope you look at them fondly and smile before you throw them away. At this point, it’s the best I can hope for and more than I deserve.

I’m sorry I’ve let you down. I never meant to. Hopefully in the next life Fate will not have her way once again and we can still be together. Preferably under the Corsican stars.

I’m so sorry and I’ll forever be

Yours,

Robert


	8. Luck and Love

The last letter was a low blow. Sixsmith called in sick to work the morning he got it. He lay abed staring at the ceiling and wondering about silly useless things that didn’t really matter like what the situation was with Robert’s flat, how much money was owed on it since Robert had been away, and who was minding it when he was gone. He didn’t even have a key. But really, was it any of his concern? There was nothing in that bloody flat worth keeping anyway.

He shook the last cigarette from the pack and crushed it. He lit the smoke and blew the cloud to the ceiling, his mind flicking to the small office Robert had with his equipment in it. He supposed that both would be alright for the time being, but he had to check. It would be bad enough if Robert didn’t have a place to live, but it would be worse if he lost his means of income.

He resolved to look into both. But first, he would lie here and consider the smoke above his head and how much he hated Robert Frobisher.

 

~080~

 

Sunday nights always managed a cruel trick on the populace of modern society: they managed to make Monday morning appear prematurely. It was this way with the two intertwined bodies on the bed. Sixsmith moaned and threw the duvet over his head. “Don’t do that,” said Robert’s muffled voice from the next pillow. “I need to leave for London today and I can’t afford to fall back asleep.” Sixsmith reached out an arm and flung the duvet back, dazzling sunlight slapping them both in the face.

“It’s already past dawn,” said Sixsmith. “What time’s your meeting?”

“I need to be on the 10:20 in order to make the dinner reservations,” he said. Suddenly he groaned.

“What?” asked Sixsmith. He was disgustingly aware of his wakefulness by now.

“I still have to go home and pack,” he said. “I’ve been with you all weekend. I haven’t done shit.”

“That’s awful,” said Sixsmith, who didn’t really feel that badly about it. But he wasn’t completely heartless when it came to Robert’s future. “We could get in the shower, scrub up, and be on our way within the hour. I’ll buy you a coffee and a bun along the way.”

Robert pulled his head away from the pillow to show Sixsmith a glinting green eye and the corner of a cock-eyed ruby grin. “Deal,” he said.

 

~080~

 

The manager of the building in which Robert had his office space was owed rent. Not just the last installment either. He was going to give Robert until the first of the next month to pay, according to the rules of his lease agreement, but he told Sixsmith that the auction house had already been notified to arrive on the second to price and sell whatever they found.

Sixsmith moved to the doorway and looked up into the Scottish sunshine that was coming down in buckets from overhead. Thunder cracked and he was struck with a sudden pain. He decided that this would be the last effort he made for him. It would be like the Chinese funerals where money is burned to the deceased so that they may be rich in the afterlife. He paid the manager the arrears and another month in advance. He could afford it.

When he walked away, he felt lighter - in the wallet, to be sure, but also in spirit. He made his way in the rain to Robert’s flat finally feeling like he was helping the man he was so desperately trying not to love.

 

~080~

 

They enjoyed bathing together. From the moment they stood under the spray to the touch of soap and flannel on their skin, to the scent of shampoo in their hair and the thrill of having someone else do all the scrubbing, it was heaven on earth to bathe with one another. The kisses in between didn’t hurt either. “How do you feel this morning?” Robert asked him, addressing the elephant in the room.

“A bit sore,” Sixsmith admitted, “but on the whole, it was wonderful.” He punctuated his sincerity with a long kiss. “You’re so good to me, Robert.”

“The soreness will fade, but perhaps we should avoid that area until you’re well again, my love,” he said.

“Looks like I’ll have plenty of time to heal up, what with you going away and all,” said Sixsmith.

“It won’t be for long,” said Robert, his arms wrapped around Sixsmith’s shoulders as they talked under the spray. “Soon enough I’ll be right back here. Right in your arms.” Another slow kiss was exchanged and they regarded each other for some time afterward as though mapping the other’s face.

“Where have you been all my life?” he asked him. He vaguely remembered asking Sarai that once, but he didn’t remember her answer at all.

Robert smiled and kissed his neck. “I have always been here; in every lifetime, in every circumstance. Our lives are intertwined, I told you. This isn’t some passing fancy as I thought it was. This is you and me forever and always under the Corsican stars.”

“You bloody romantic,” smiled Sixsmith.

“You love it,” retorted Robert.

They shared a laugh, another sweet kiss, and rinsed off. “I can write, you know,” said Robert. “No one ever writes letters anymore - not since the advent of email anyway.” He wrapped a towel about his slim waist and regarded Sixsmith. “What do you think?”

“I’d settle for a postcard,” he said.

“Postcards and letters,” sighed Robert as he scrubbed at his hair with another towel. “The very notion sounds romantic.”

Sixsmith smiled, hair towel-dried, towel about his neck, watching him. “It sounds like you.”

 

~080~

 

“You’re his brother?” said the building manager, looking at Sixsmith’s cheque.

“Yes,” said Sixsmith. “We’d long been separated. Robert’s a bit of a black sheep, you see.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, still eyeing Sixsmith carefully. “Well…” He disappeared into his own flat which occupied the ground floor. His voice came from within: “I also don’t doubt he’s out of town. Scarpers off to thither and yon, never letting a body know anything.” He re-appeared at the door with a key in his hand. “There you are. Spare one in case I get a couple what rents. Have at it then,” he said. And without so much as a good day to Sixsmith, he closed the door.

As he climbed the stair to the third story, Sixsmith sighed. The ink on his cheque was barely dry when the manager took it. It was a tidy sum that made him cringe a bit to settle up. Robert was three months behind on his rent. There was no wonder why he was so eager to meet the mysterious and powerful – and apparently mental – Vivian Ayrs.

Sixsmith pushed the thought away with disgust. The way he was treated by the Ayrs was abhorrent. But had he been there, Sixsmith was sure that Robert wouldn’t have gone off to Los Angeles or Malibu or any other part of California with either of them. Jocasta Ayrs was a succubus and Vivian was an ego-maniacal rage monster. Robert was such a good judge of character; it dazzled Sixsmith that he would even consider going anywhere with those two when they were so clearly toxic.

He unlocked Robert’s door and went inside. He closed the door behind him and rested against it; the smell of Robert was everywhere and it made him sob. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. It wasn’t anything he was expecting and it brought home all those feelings he was trying to push away, tamp down.

All the shades were drawn and it gave the flat a funereal aspect. At that hour of the late morning, all those that did work were at work and it was terribly quiet. He could hear his own footsteps on the carpet as he moved to the back bedroom. He knew the sitting room and bedroom could use a tidying up. Eleanor had been in and done her damage. He only prayed it was still there and she hadn’t smashed it to bits.

 

~080~

 

“I need to pack my suit,” said Robert. They were dressing hurriedly and Robert was talking mostly to himself about the things he needed to remember to take.

“For the dinner?” Sixsmith asked as he put a clean pair of trousers on.

“What?” asked Robert as he buttoned his shirt. “Oh yes. Sorry. Just organizing.”

Sixsmith smiled. “I have to make a list on paper of the things I need to take with me on trips.” He reached for a small notebook he kept by the phone. “I can start one if you like. I’ll put suit at the top.”

Robert smiled and shook his head. “You are far too tidy in that brain of yours.”

“And in my habits,” Sixsmith admitted. “Give me a moment to make up the bed and we can be off.”

“Really?” asked Robert. Sixsmith didn’t reply. He just shrugged and gave him a tight smile, smoothing the sheets, snapping the coverlet and straightening the duvet. Pillows were fluffed and placed and Sixsmith looked at it with satisfaction. “Good lord, you were serious.” Robert had watched all of this with some amazement and then said: “I wonder how your wardrobe is.” He went to the armoire and opened it wide.

It was full of items that were neatly stowed, despite the lack of room. “It’s a habit, I’m afraid. It’s in my nature,” said Sixsmith from behind him.

“This is lovely,” he said, pulling on a colorful waistcoat. “Do you wear this at all?”

“I did consider it for my wedding years ago, but Sarai trumped me saying it was too garish,” said Sixsmith. It had captured his eye at the bespoke men’s store and he walked right to it. It was a hand-embroidered affair with peacock blues and rich reds and he had never seen the like before. The fitter had asked him if he liked it and he immediately took it off its hanger and put it on. It was if it was made for him. He was utterly crushed when he saw Sarai’s face. He put it to the back of their closet immediately and not without a small pang of loss. He hadn’t realized that he still had it, but there it hung all the way toward the edge of the wardrobe, like his old spirit waiting for him to find himself again.

“I think it’s lovely,” said Robert reverently. “It’s very you. She was a fool to not let you wear it.”

“Then you take it,” said Sixsmith. Robert looked at him. “For luck.” Robert smiled and put it on. It fit beautifully. “Perfect. Will it go with your suit?”

“Suit’s black; this will give it color,” he said smoothing a hand over it. He looked up into his eyes. “I love it. Thank you.” He smiled, took Sixsmith by the face with both his hands and placed a strong kiss over his mouth. “Let’s go.”

 

~080~

 

The purple ashtray sat on his desk as he flicked through the pictures Sarai had emailed him of Megan’s voice recital. It had been a shame that he couldn’t go and he was certain that it was more Megan’s doing that Sarai sent the pictures at all. She looked lovely in a powder pink dress. Sixsmith was sure that she hated it; it wasn’t vintage, after all.

He smiled at her image in all the pictures, some posed, some not. She was with strangers in some of them, with Sarai for others, and up on stage for most of them, mouth open, eyes closed. She really could sing. He recalled her recitals in the past. It always made her happy to sing.

Once, when she was three, she sang a song just for him. It was a beautiful sunny day and Sarai had gone across the park they were picnicking in to throw away some refuse and was stopped by a couple they had known from Megan’s daycare who were out for a stroll. He had watched her for some time, brunette hair down to her arse, jeans that clung to her frame, and a figure that denied having had a child. He had grinned as he looked at her and though himself fortunate.

That was when two little hands grabbed his face as he reclined there, propped up on one elbow. Megan had been prattling on in her child’s language, telling him stories, making nonsensical sounds, and playing with her dolly. She grabbed his face and he focused completely on her. Her blue eyes were serious and she said: “Daddy? Song?”

“Are you going to sing to me, little bird?” he had asked. He had forgotten that when she was a babe, he called her “little bird”. He would have to revive that, because it was as true now as it was then.

She had said “Yes,” he recalled. And then she sang of Daddy’s blue eyes and his lovely nose and his wonderful hair, and his silly feet, and his hugs (and here she hugged him) and ended her song. He clapped for her and cheered and asked for another hug. She gave it to him freely and lovingly and with a laugh that always charms adults but always seems to stir something a little deeper in the parent of a child.

“My own sweet little bird,” he muttered to the picture on the screen. He wished he had had the presence of mind to show Robert her picture when he suddenly realized that he had wanted to show Robert her – in the flesh. He had wanted him to meet her and now he was… somewhere not here.

An ache ran through him and he felt old. He needed air and Edinburgh and London weren’t going to cut it.

His mouse clicked over his internet browser link. He called up the first French airline he could think of and looked up prices for Corsica.

He stared at the screen until the day grew dark in the window behind him. Perhaps if he saw the island without Robert, if he had his own adventure, found his own happiness without Robert there, he would be able to come home and have a life without him here. He sighed and got out his credit card.

It was worth a try.


	9. Starts and Stops

The remnants of his relationship and Eleanor’s emotions about it were strewn all over Robert’s flat. The sitting room was cluttered with the detritus of impotent rage; the physical manifestation of a person traumatized by the revelation that the power in the relationship wasn’t theirs. Robert surveyed the scene with a moue of concern on his face. Despite his huff and knitted brow, he looked at Sixsmith and said with a shrug: “Nevermind.”

They moved to the bedroom where the real mess was, but Sixsmith had no time to take account for the mess as Robert had assigned him packing duties. A suitcase was opened on the bed and Robert gathered up whole drawers of pants and socks and dumped them unceremoniously into the empty shell. At first, Sixsmith watched him in astonishment. But when he came back with an armload of shirts, he raised an objecting hand and motioned for the shirts to be deposited to the side and not, as Robert was about to do, cascaded over the lump of socks and pants.

Methodically he set everything to rights inside the case, folding things the way he had learned to years ago by his father: socks go in the shoes, one pair per shoe so as not to crease the leather, rings and watches in the toes; shirts are stacked one on the other openly and then folded and rolled up together; same for the trousers. Formal wear was always placed in a separate garment bag, tie and handkerchief tucked in the pockets, belt in the shoes that would go in the bag, and so on. He was surprised and grateful that Robert actually had a decent garment bag so his lifelong packing sensibilities wouldn’t be affronted. Robert watched him do all this while smoking at the window.

“You’d make a wonderful husband, you know,” he said.

Sixsmith raised his head. “I was a wonderful husband.”

Robert smiled sadly and nodded. He was beautiful in the window. Sixsmith turned back to his work and found he was blinking back tears; he never realized how much he was going to miss him.

 

~080~

 

The clouds only reminded him of Robert’s music. Somewhere ahead of them lay the city of Ajaccio where he would land and try to forget that music. He remembered the thumb drive with the music on it that Robert had given him and realized he had left it on his desk at home. Sixsmith shook his head. He was trying to forget this man, his music, his smile, his everything, why in the world would he feel awful about leaving the copy of the music behind him when that’s exactly what he needed to do?

Sixsmith supposed that it was his heart attempting to help him. It was a subconscious effort at intervention and in a sad, twisted way, Sixsmith was glad. Corsica would now be the Corsica of his memory, as he had wanted. All the adventures would be his. All the people he met and smiled at would be his friends, acquaintances. He would not just stroll through his own life like some extra in a crowd scene; he was going to own this story.

The clouds mocked him. Bearing witness to his bold attempts at wresting his life apart from one whom he deeply loved, their beauty, their perfection, sang the strains of Robert’s sextet to him and reminded him of the dance that made him never want to stop dancing.

“Sir?” a female voice said. He turned to her and her friendly face moved to one of concern. “Are you alright?”

He had been crying. “What?” He raised a hand to his eyes and wiped away the tears. “Oh yes. I’m just a bit sentimental. The clouds are beautiful.”

She smiled and reminded him to fasten his seat belt. They were about to land in Corsica.

 

~080~

 

He clasped the luggage closed and looked about. The place was a pigsty and he was going to offer to come back and clean it up when Robert was suddenly filling his arms. “I will write you, you know.”

“I know, love,” he said, stroking his face. “It’s alright.” They kissed as if for the last time and Sixsmith held his breath hoping to stop the clock. They clung to each other desperately knowing that this was their last chance at a bit of private intimacy before Robert had to be at the train station. “Do we really have time for this?” he asked.

Robert checked his watch. “Just,” he replied, his smile turning devilish.

“Good,” said Sixsmith.

“What’ll it be?” asked Robert as he stripped off the waistcoat. Sixsmith took the suitcase off the bed and straightened the duvet. “Shall you bugger me for the road? Or did you want-“ Sixsmith cut him off with a kiss.

“I just want you,” he replied. “Get on the bed, shoes off. Let everything else stay.” At first mention of fooling around, Robert had had an energy about him to rival an over-stimulated child, but at these words, he sobered at once. Solemnly, reverently, he did as he was told.

They estimated that they had an hour and a half before they had to leave for the station. All of it was spent with Robert being cradled by Sixsmith. His hands rubbed soothingly on his back, his head on Sixsmith’s breast. He placed intermittent kisses in Robert’s hair and forehead until Robert looked flushed and embarrassed. “You make me cry, Sixsmith,” he said. And it was true.

Sixsmith kissed at his wet face. “I shall miss you so very much, my love,” he said. “Come home to me soon, won’t you?” Robert was moved beyond words by the tenderness. “After all, you’ve promised me a dance under the Corsican stars.” Tenderly, he kissed his mouth and every word they couldn’t say was contained in it.

 

~080~

 

His French was rusty and the islanders had a few words and phrases that he couldn’t remember, so by the time he got the motorbike hired from the vendor near the airport, it was well past midday when he set off. He really had no plan to go anywhere, but from what he could tell online, most of the island was still wonderful for camping and that had been part of his plan all along. But first: the hotel in Solenzara. He strapped his bags and gear to the back of the bike and started away.

The island was as he remembered. The cities were modern and bustling but with an old-world tropical flair that was charming. And lest the city become too full of itself, the mountains on its inland border reminded it of where it came from. Practically every street was busy with traffic, the byways so narrow, Sixsmith was glad he had a bike instead of a car. And he passed outdoor cafés and brasseries, a random flag of France flying above the thoroughfare, grand yet quaint cathedrals steeped in history, and prominent houses fit for heads of state with prim gardens shaded by palm trees.

He decided to head through the center of the island to get to his hotel. He could stand a shower and some rest before dinner and straight through was the quickest way. He promised himself a drive along the sea tomorrow. Where the N193 met the D27, he stopped and gaped at the mountain before him. The clouds kissed its top, hiding it from view and he was dumbstruck by its beauty. He had forgotten how gorgeous this place truly was.

He started the motor back up and moved on. It had only taken him a little over two hours to get to La Solenzara Hotel, the island charming him all the way along. He found his room, dropped his bags, and opened the window. The view was stunning: the in-ground pool and the bay beyond glistened in the sun. Sixsmith breathed in the sea air and felt peace wash over him.

This was a good decision.

 

~080~

 

They slid off the bed slowly to make the moment between them linger. Robert had cried quietly on Sixsmith’s shoulder and he sat up wiping his own tears away with the back of one hand. They sat side by side in silence for a few minutes. There was distant ticking of a clock coming from somewhere and it was a rude intrusion; the last thing they wanted reminding of was the passing of time.

“I shall look forward to your letters,” said Sixsmith quietly.

“And I will seal them all with a kiss,” said Robert, sheepishly grinning at him ashamed of his own sentimentality.

“Best get going,” said Sixsmith.

“Yes,” he said.

They both sat there in the morning gloom wishing for time to stop, for that constant tick tick tick to fuck off and leave them out of it so that they didn’t have to leave the cocoon of the flat. Sixsmith sighed and put his shoes back on. Mechanically, Robert joined him. Once done, they looked at each other. Sixsmith got up first. Robert didn’t move.

“Is this what you really want for yourself, Robert?” he asked him.

Robert looked up at him thoughtfully. After a moment’s hesitation he said: “I have to do something with my life.”

“And loving me isn’t enough,” Sixsmith finished for him.

Robert smiled. “Loving you is what I want to earn the right to do. I must do this first. I must pay my dues. Then I can come home in triumph and glory and all will be well.”

“Then let’s get going,” said Sixsmith. “Your train to triumph and glory won’t wait for you.”

Robert rose and kissed him on the cheek, wrapping his arms about his neck. “You are my favorite person, Rufus Sixsmith.”

Sixsmith smiled and kissed him back slowly. “Thank you. And you are mine, Robert Frobisher. Now let’s get you to London. On to glory!”

 

~080~

 

“Did you make it, dad?” asked Megan. Her voice was tinny over the hotel phone.

“Yes, little bird,” he said. “Landed just fine and made it here before suppertime. How’s mum?”

“She’s fine,” said Megan, her voice suddenly sullen.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Out on a date,” she said.

“And you’re all alone at the house?”

“Dad, I can take care of myself,” she replied.

“Darling, you’re twelve. Now, you’re a very grown-up twelve, but you’re twelve nonetheless,” he said. “Surely there’s someone there you can go to in emergency.”

“There’s Mrs. Pritchard next door,” she said. “Honestly, daddy, I’ll be fine. I’ll watch a bit of telly and then go to bed. Mum will be home by midnight, or so she said. I’ll be fine.”

Sixsmith took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. “But if you have any trouble at all, I want you to take down this number, right?” She agreed and he gave her the number to his hotel and his hotel room number. “Matter of fact, keep it with you day and night. I don’t want anything to happen to you where you can’t reach me while I’m here.”

“OK, dad,” she said.

“And while I’m at it, let me tell you that two nights from now, I’ll be camping out at a park near here so I won’t be at that number. So if you call and can’t reach me, just find someone you trust and go to them.”

“Dad,” she said. She held annoyance in her voice. “I’m not going to be alone for a week! It’s just tonight! Stop worrying and have a good time.”

“Right,” he said, but he had felt better once he gave her the number to his hotel. He wished her a goodnight and told her he loved her before ringing off. The numbers on the digital alarm clock flicked to the next minute and the week stretched out in front of him like a gigantic blank canvass.

He decided a late swim was in order.

 

~080~

 

Robert stepped away from the ticket booth and walked back to where Sixsmith was standing with his bags. “Everything alright,” Sixsmith asked.

Robert held his ticket aloft before tucking it into his overcoat. He was wearing his waistcoat and touched it before withdrawing his hand.

“Right,” said Sixsmith. He stared long and hard at Robert, memorizing his face, burning those eyes into his brain. “This is it then.”

“I will write you. I won’t forget,” he said.

Sixsmith took his face in his hands and placed a sweet kiss to his lips. What he never would have dared two scant days ago, he made no dither with now. People in the station moved around and about them, no one stopped them, no one shouted abuse. Sixsmith felt Robert wrap his arms about his waist and the kiss deepened. He held him closer, his arms moving about Robert’s shoulders. Somewhere a child’s voice said: “Look mummy, two boys kissing.” They heard the mother mutter something and hurry the child away. Sixsmith could have laughed.

As the kiss broke, they regarded each other with such love as to break one another’s heart. “You’ve come a long way, Sixsmith,” remarked Robert.

“Around you I can do anything,” he said. The train announcement was made overhead and it echoed like a death-knell. Robert stooped and picked up his bags. “Take care,” said Sixsmith.

Robert moved away backwards, his eyes lingering on Sixsmith for as long as he dared. “I love you,” he said. And then he was gone. Sixsmith thought he caught a glimpse of his brown coat and dark hair as he moved along to find his track, but it was such a quick moment, that he wasn’t quite sure it was him.

Sixsmith stood alone in the station until well after the train left the depot, the scent of Robert clinging to him like a crying child.

 

~080~

 

Three days into his stay he camped under the Corsican stars. The white stripe of the Milky Way wasn’t there as it was in the picture he had at home, but the stars shone just as vividly as before. He felt so small as he looked up, Earth’s atmosphere made transparent by the loss of the sun, he could see the tiniest speck of suns billions of lightyears away. He felt the turn of the Earth beneath him and realized how important it was to love in this life, how rare it was.

His heart still ached for Robert, but he wanted to show Megan this too. He wanted to see the universe afresh through her young eyes. A moth landed on his hand in the firelight and he regarded it, fascinated by the color on its body and wings. He twitched his finger and it was gone, flying up to join the sparks from the campfire which in turn joined the stars above.

He remembered what he had been taught in school about the light from the stars being so far away and since they were at such a distance, their light probably represented a star that had burnt out well before the Earth was formed. He wondered which ones were already gone.

Perhaps this is what love is? Perhaps, even though it had ended, the light continues to burn for billions of years, radiating out into eternity? Would he always love Robert Frobisher in this way? Sixsmith received a resounding “YES” from both his heart and soul and somehow was comforted. Their love was a burning star, incandescent in the night.

He slept dreamlessly that night and was grateful for the mercy his heart had granted him.


	10. Lost and Found

It sat on the kitchen table where Sarai had left the rest of his mail. The postcard had been sent from Boston and had a three-masted frigate on the front. The description read “USS Constitution “Old Ironsides””. The opposite side was desperate in its simplicity:

 

S—

I had to pawn your waistcoat. Please don’t be angry. I’m very low. One harsh word from you and I couldn’t stand it. I can’t do this anymore.

 

It wasn’t signed.

 

~080~

 

The heat beat down on him as he walked along the street to the tavern and he wondered why he never went after him. It would have been a matter of flying to the city he was in, and he could afford it if he stretched his budget. Between paying for Robert’s office, flat, and his own trip to the island, he had already spent what he would have spent on the travel. They say that hindsight is 20/20 and Sixsmith was seeing things clearer than before; all he surveyed was depressing in the reflection.

By the time he ordered his drink and took the first sip, it wasn’t about quenching a thirst anymore; it was about drowning his guilt. He was a blithering coward and he knew it.

Robert was such a free spirit. Wasn’t that what attracted him in the first place? Why couldn’t he have thrown caution to the wind and gone after him? He had had plenty of opportunities to – months of opportunities. But he always had an excuse: his job, his family. He had reasoned himself out of it on countless occasions, telling himself that Robert was a weekend love, a passing fancy, a phase. But he knew it wasn’t true. The lie of it was comforting to him and it shouldn’t have been. Now, seated at the bar in a foreign tap house, he stared at his empty glass and wished he had been more courageous.

He had failed Robert. He had failed their love.

“Excusez-moi,” he said to the bartender holding his glass aloft, “un plus, sil vous plait.”

 

~080~

 

The letter, hastily written, sat just beneath the aforementioned postcard. The envelope and paper were from a cheap hotel in South Boston.

 

S,

I wouldn’t be writing you this if I didn’t need to confess something to someone and since I’m no Catholic, it’s you in whom I’ve chosen to confide.

I met a man last night who bought me a few drinks. We fucked and I took his money and fled. Shame really, he seemed nice. He even used a condom.

I hate what I’ve become.

I suppose you do too.

I hope you burn this.

R

 

~080~

 

“Welcome back, monsieur,” said Rafael. The barman had become rather a friend for all of Sixsmith’s enthusiastic patronage. His English was wonderful with a heavy French accent and Sixsmith found his company a comfort. His brain got tired from translating before speaking and Rafael was a welcome relief.

Sixsmith smiled at him and waved. He was tanned after a morning driving shirtless around the island’s circumference and a relaxing afternoon at the pool. The sun had exhausted him, but he was rather happy considering how masochistic his brain had been all day torturing him with thoughts like: I wonder what Robert would make of… I wonder what Robert would say if he could see… I wonder… I wonder.

As the pint was placed in front of him he sighed deeply. He was the only one at the bar at that early hour on a Monday. “That sigh means something,” said Rafael. He rubbed the water spots off his glasses and watched Sixsmith carefully, a wistful smile on his face.

“Do you ever get tired of being a priest?” asked Sixsmith.

“A priest?” asked Rafael, confused. “It is ‘barman’ or ‘bartender’, no? A priest is in a church.”

“Yes, but you hear confessions all day, do you not?” asked Sixsmith with a sad smirk.

Rafael took a moment and then laughed. “You are right, monsieur!” He came close to him and leaned over the bar conspiratorially. “So have you something to confess?”

Sixsmith allowed the small smirk to fade from his face. “I’m afraid I’m in love, Rafael.”

“Oh? And this is cause for confessions?” he said. “Then you are in love with someone who does not love you back.”

“No,” he said. “They love me back. At least, they keep telling me they do.”

“Do they?” Sixsmith nodded. “Then you must go to them and tell them that your love persists. That they are all you desire. Eh… wait- is this person married?”

“No,” said Sixsmith with a chuckle.

“Ah, even better,” he said. “So you go to him and you say-“

“Now you wait,” said Sixsmith. “I never said it was a man.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “You kept saying ‘they’ ‘them’ instead of ‘she’ ‘her’. I think: you must be ashamed. What would cause a man shame these days? Loving another man. So, I say ‘he’ ‘him’ and you stop me. This makes me think I’m right. I am right, no?”

Sixsmith nods. “You are right, Rafael.”

“But you get it wrong, monsieur,” he said. “Love is nothing to ever be ashamed of. Is he ashamed to love you?”

Sixsmith looked at Rafael square in the face, tears welling and feeling like he had just been slapped. This, after all was the answer he had been searching for all along. That is why he didn’t go after Robert. That was the reason he had excuse after excuse after excuse, why he buried himself in work, why he relished the letters and felt so safe. He wasn’t risking anything by staying. He wasn’t-

“Monsieur Sixsmith?” asked Rafael.

He met the bartender’s kindly dark eyes and smiled apologetically. “Thanks, Rafael,” he said, paying his bill and getting to his feet. “Turns out, confession is good for the soul.” He was gone from the tavern before Rafael had time to ask him what he said.

 

~080~

 

Two days after Sarai came to lay his mail on the table, this letter arrived and scattered along his floor. It had a Boston postmark on it and was on plain white paper in a plain white envelope.

 

My Dearest Sixsmith,

Life has thrown me another curveball and this time I’m certain that I will fail again. I won’t bother you with the details, but suffice to say that I’ve hit upon a solution: I shall begin again.

By the way, you do know that I believe that this life isn’t the only life there is? I think I’ve mentioned that we’ve met again and again in many lifetimes, through many circumstances, only Fate has kept us apart. So I think I’ll try resetting the clock, try tricking Fate.

I shall miss you always, but only for as long as the time until I can see you again. Never fear, my love, because Fate will not get her way this time. I’m sure I have her beaten, outsmarted her at last.

I’ve just got to be brave enough to do it. I know I can be if I do it for you, for us. I’ll close my eyes and think of the stars.

Yours,

Robert

 

~080~

 

Sixsmith dashed about his room, packing his clothing. He was going to fly back to Paris and then off to Boston as soon as humanly possible. After that, who knew? He had never been to Boston, never done anything so insane as what he was doing right now. But after what Rafael had asked him, he owed it to Robert to try. He owed it to himself to not give up.

He had rolled over and played dead when it came to Sarai and their marriage because he had thought it was the only option open to him, but he was never brave with her. He had never been brave for her. No wonder she thought him a coward: she was right.

But he wasn’t a coward now. He packed as hastily as his peccadilloes would allow him to and closed the case. He still had to get to the front desk to ask about checking out early and the next flight out of town. Barring a sudden volcano bursting in Iceland, he should be able to leave anytime tonight, or early tomorrow morning.

As the last of his things were shoved in his carry-on, he realized that he’d need to clear everything with his bank back home or he’d be financially cut off. And he had to buy a phone in the States; that would be a new experience. It wasn’t that he was afraid of these things; it’s more that there were so many of these things to _do_. He looked at the blank paper that lay on the desk, its purpose was for correspondence, but Sixsmith desperately wanted to make a list. He was certain he could hear Robert laughing at his need for premeditation inside his spontaneity and his ego winced at the thought of being so confined by organization when he was supposed to be carefree and reckless.

But he wasn’t Robert.

He took up the paper and began writing down all the things he would have to take care of in the next few hours ahead if he wanted to leave the soonest he could. He soon realized that he needed to ask the front desk what times planes left for the mainland before he could do anything. After all, it made no sense to take up a certain amount of time taking care of things when the very flight he needed would leave an hour before he was even ready to leave the hotel and cross the island. Transporting himself to the other side would take two hours alone.

Sixsmith sighed and picked up the phone. _Would there be a flight leaving tonight for Paris?_ He put his socks in his shoes as he waited. _No? There was no flight? Oh. He’d just missed it. When was the next flight? Really? Why? Oh, I see. Armistice Day already? My… right, so last flight came in already and no flights again until Wednesday, correct? Right. Thank you. No… I’ll call myself on Wednesday. Thank you. Good evening._

He had forgotten the holiday. It seemed hard to believe that it would still be so nice here when it was probably bone-chilling back home. Rafael had said it was warmer than normal for this time of year. Idly Sixsmith wondered what the weather was like in Boston in November. He had only a vague notion of where Boston was and knew it was a chillier part of the world than southern California. This made him pack faster. He set a few more sets of clothing aside for the next couple of days along with his toiletries. Once everything was done, he surveyed the damage and stowed his bags in the corner.

All that was left to do was wait. He hoped he reached Robert in time.

His gut twisted. Something was wrong.

 

~080~

 

His own desperation was breaking him as he waited outside the pawn shop. The sign said the man had gone to lunch, but that was an hour ago. He paced.

“Come here for your items, sir?” said a voice.

“Yes,” he said. “I have what you asked for, though it took a bit of doing.”

“Well, you seemed like the type of guy who could handle it. You got it then?”

“Yes,” he said nervously and looking about. “Look, could we do this inside? I’m a bit twitchy.”

The man chuckled. “I can see that. Alright.” Mercifully he unlocked the door and kept the “Open” sign off. “Back here.” He motioned with a chubby finger to come beyond the caged door and into the back. At a dusty table covered in items he turned to him and said: “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The nervous man set down the satchel bag he had on and pulled forth a few items. As he brought each out, the pawn shop owner inspected them. “And you acquired these yourself, did you?”

“Are you implying that I did something illegal to possess them?”

“Not at all!” said the pawn shop owner. “Only, my customers like to know when they’re getting the genuine article or not. If something’s a copy or a cheap make, I want to be able to tell them so they don’t feel robbed, you dig?”

“I dig,” said the nervous man. “They are what they seem to be.”

“Awesome,” said the pawn shop owner. “Shit, boy!” he exclaimed as he examined a Rolex closely. “This is genuine, no doubt. I’m going to have to hire you on, man. You’ve got a good eye.” He looked at the other man closely. “None of this is local shit, right?”

“No,” he said. “Other side of the city.” He had been careful to wipe all his fingerprints from all the items before placing them in the velvet pouch inside his satchel. A shiver passed through him that it had come to this. He pushed the next thought away hard.

“You alright, man?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s this place,” he said. “It’s fucking freezing in here.”

“Boiler acts up,” he said. “I’ll give it a kick in a minute.” He went back to examining the pinky ring. Its flat surface should have had a family crest or initials; it was blank. “This is a good one. No inscriptions. Someone can come along and make it their own. Perfect. Like I said: you’ve got a great eye. You want to work for me?”

The man shook his head. “I’m not staying here for much longer. Just trying to repay a debt.”

“Yeah well,” said the man. “You think about it anyway. Debt or no debt, you’re good. I could use a good man around here.”

“Thanks all the same, no. And when you’re ready to give me a price, please don’t forget to subtract the cost of the item I’m back for.”

The man shrugged, nodded, and looked over all the merchandise. “Alright,” he said. “For everything, including overhead on the Rolex – it’s got a serial number that can be traced and so I gotta get that removed delicately – and the colorful vest, I’ll give you…” and he named a price that earned a smile of gratitude from the other man.

“Deal?” said the man.

“Absolutely,” said the man and shook his hand.

As he left, he ducked into the first alley way he could find and risking deathly exposure to the elements, took the time to spread the cash all over his person in different ways: down his pants, at the base of his satchel, in both his shoes, back pockets, front pockets, inside jacket pockets – everywhere he could think of.

Pulling up the collar of his well-worn coat, he headed back to his dismal flat to bid this whole damn life goodbye.

 

~080~

 

He sat alone at his table near the pool, the seas in the marina were calm and the moonlight was as bright as a floodlight. The last of the hibiscus scented the air and other guests had moved off hours ago for the nights had gone a bit chilly. He was the last one there and he was glad because his thoughts were so morose as to scare off any potential conversationalists.

He was in a holding pattern and he hated those. When one wishes for their life to begin again, they want to get as good a start as is possible, and Sixsmith was the rule to this, rather than the exception.

He sighed, gulped some more wine, and dwelled on his cowardice.

He recalled a confrontation that he and Sarai had had one evening as they were walking home from one of their rare “date nights” after Megan was born. They were jumped and mugged. Sixsmith had told Sarai to hand over everything the man asked for and she did so, but begrudgingly. It was a painful episode, but when they finally talked to the police, they assured Sarai that Sixsmith had made the right decision. But, she had complained, they even took her necklace that her grandmother had given her.

The police were as understanding as they could be. They asked her for a description of the item and promised to spread the word to all the pawn shops in London so that if they saw it, they would contact her. Ultimately, it was found and when it was, Sixsmith was there to take the call that had come to the house. He went and picked it up from the police, had it delicately re-wrapped, and presented it to her on their next date out. Sarai had wept openly and then slapped him.

“Why were you such a coward!?” she asked. Everyone in the restaurant was staring. He urged her to notice them and she shook her head. “You could have stepped up! You could have confronted him! All he had was a tiny knife. If he’d have stabbed you, it wouldn’t have gone in not more than an inch or two! It was a bloody pocket knife for fuck’s sake!” She sobbed. Again he urged her to quiet herself. “If you had been a man, you would have just punched him. I would have run with you! Then we’d have still had our things and I wouldn’t have lost this for so long-“ Here she stopped herself, realizing how ungrateful she was being.

She looked up at him, tearstained and startled: “Oh god… thank you for finding it, for getting it back.”

Shamefaced and blushing, publicly humiliated, he had admitted defeat by saying: “It wasn’t me. It was the police. They called to say they had found it.” He couldn’t even look at her.

Back then, she still held a bit of sympathy for him. Lord knows why. If he asked Sarai today, he was fairly certain that she wouldn’t have an answer for him. But her heart still contained that sympathy and she held him there in the middle of the dining room as people slowly settled back into their own conversations and the waiter, in a subtle suggestion, had brought their check.

Sixsmith sighed. He took up his glass and muttered to no one: “And I’m still a coward, Sarai. Robert found it out the first day and I am again made acutely aware of my failings. Jesus wept, but I’m sorry.” A waiter was at his shoulder pouring him more wine. His head was already buzzing with it and Christ- he had even begun talking to himself. That was it; he was for bed. Perhaps he’d sleep all of Armistice Day away and be that much closer to Robert.

“No no,” he said to the waiter as he filled his glass unbidden. “No more. I’m off to bed I think, thank you.”

“Oh but I insist you have one more,” he said.

Sixsmith’s ears were playing tricks on him. It wasn’t as if it weren’t the first time it had happened in the five days he’d been there. And save for the blissful dreamless sleep he was granted when he went camping, he had been plagued with it off and on for months. He would see his face in crowds; hear his voice in the bustle of people in town. The only difference in this occurrence was that he was alone and hearing him. Sixsmith shut his eyes against his own madness and said: “And I insist that I’m exhausted. I’m going to b-“

Robert Frobisher smiled down on him, wine bottle in his hand. The stars above him shone brilliantly.

 

~080~

 

The woman came out of the house, urging her daughter along. She nearly ran him over as he stood at the door. He had been lingering there unsure of what to say, unsure of whether or not to knock at all. When she came bursting through the other side he stepped back uttering: “Oh.”

She stopped to glare at him. “Who are you?”

Her girl’s voice was just behind her. “Who is it, mum?” She poked her head under her mother’s extended arm where she rested it against the doorframe, barring the man’s way. The little girl’s eyes lit up and she gasped, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “Has he moved?”

“What? No. We’re just watering his plants and picking up his mail while he’s away,” she answered automatically. She caught herself and repeated, incensed: “Who are you?”

“Mum,” her daughter said reproachfully. “You know who he is.” She smiled up at him and said: “Hello,” she held out her hand. “My name’s Megan Moira Sixsmith. You must be looking for my dad.”


	11. Stars and Hearts

They stood together for the first time in months and the earth stopped spinning. Sound vanished from the world, the breeze stilled, Sixsmith was sure of it, yet Robert’s fringe danced as if there were a light zephyr. His lips opened and then closed, he never said a word. He looked exhausted. He looked gaunt. He looked sorry.

He wore the waistcoat he had been given but the wine bottle blocked his view so he took it from his hands and set it down on the table. His hands shook. The tremors traveled up his arms to his chest until his tears burst forth like a volcano. “Say something, please, Sixsmith,” he begged softly.

As Sixsmith stepped to him, raising his hands to Robert’s face, Robert pinched his eyes shut, turned his head as if expecting a blow, and pleaded: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. I want to come back. Please don’t turn me away. Hit me if you have to, but don’t turn me away.”

It was Sixsmith’s turn to burst into tears. “Hit you?” he said. “Dear god, is that what you think me capable of?” He took his face gently and brought himself close. “You silly boy.”

A kiss is an expression of affection; any child can tell you that. But any adult can tell you that a kiss can mean a thousand things, a million things, because love isn’t a single concept but a ball of ever-cycling, roiling, morphing emotional input and output. Love can range uniquely in depth and breadth for every living creature, as personal as a fingerprint. For all of Sixsmith’s experiences throughout his life, he took all the moments of happiness (his mother’s biscuits), joy (Christmas Day), passion (Robert’s eyes when they made love), and affection (his daughter’s laughter), and he mixed it with everything he was feeling that moment: relief, anguish, disbelief, belief, and forgiveness.

The result was a kiss of such tenderness and unfathomable care, it rendered both of them breathless. Sixsmith had been scarcely aware that Robert had wrapped his arms about him, had pulled him closer. He barely knew he had carded a hand through locks that he thought he would never touch again. “Don’t leave,” he said against his mouth.

“Never,” came the response and they pressed together again, lips, tongues, and teeth all working in concert and building to a frenzied crescendo neither of them had felt in endless days. It was the pull of the moon on the tide, the moth flitting up into the sparks of fire, the star’s flicker above; this was the end of Fate keeping them apart. Nothing else mattered now and their wet kisses mingled with the fluttering breeze through the palm fronds, the sound of the lapping water, and the sweet scent of the last of the hibiscus.

 

~080~

 

They laid there for a while in the quiet after their lovemaking. Distantly they could hear the waves against the shore and the scent of sea air mingled with their musk and the vanilla clean that would always mean Robert to him. “I owe you an apology,” said Sixsmith at last. “As soon as you told me about Vivian Ayrs, I should have been on the very next flight to Hollywood.” He looked over at Robert whose face was such a welcome sight, it fairly made Sixsmith weep. Robert’s eyes were closed in repose and moonlight made his skin glow, but he was very much awake.

“And here I thought I was the one at fault,” he said. He smiled and turned his head toward his lover.

Sixsmith propped himself up on one elbow and regarded Robert. “How in hell was any of this your fault?”

“I cut you off from communicating with me, Sixsmith,” he replied. “I kept you dangling on the end of the line that I controlled. It wasn’t fair. You deserved better.”

“Stop that nonsense,” said Sixsmith. “It’s true, I did lose patience with you, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t care or didn’t worry myself sick.”

Robert began to cry and threw an arm over his eyes. “I never meant for any-“

In seconds, Sixsmith had him in his arms and cradled him, quieting him with soft comforting sounds. “It’s alright, my love. Shhh…  We were both stupid, I think.”

“You were never stupid,” argued Robert. “I was the reckless one. Always running after things that don’t exist or that seem so simple and easy and turn to shit. It’s always the way with me. I’m surprised that you hadn’t ditched me ages ago. I can’t be the one to destroy your life.”

“Oh stop,” said Sixsmith. “Who’s destroying anything? Your letters made me worry, true, but they also made me laugh.”

“Did you get my confession?”

“What confession?”

“Nevermind,” he said, muffling his voice in the crook of Sixsmith’s neck and shoulder.

“No,” said Sixsmith, pulling him gently back. “What confession?”

“I can’t,” he said. “Not to your face.”

“So turn away,” said Sixsmith. “Turn away and I won’t touch you. Whisper it to the dark. I’ll just listen.”

Robert watched his face for some sign of upset or rejection, but of course there was none. This was Rufus Sixsmith and he was happy to have Robert in his arms again. But of course, he had no idea what Robert had done to get there. Would that beautiful smile vanish if he confessed? Could he risk losing the only good thing he had ever come to know in this or any life?

“I’m scared,” he said.

Sixsmith gave a pause before saying: “Now there’s a confession. Robert Frobisher admitting that he’s actually scared of something. My my… how the worm has turned!” He chuckled in the darkness of his hotel room.

Robert shoved his chest. “I mean it. I’m genuinely terrified of losing you over this. Don’t take the piss. Just don’t.”

“Whatever it is, it’ll be alright,” said Sixsmith. “Just roll over and tell me. Is Jocasta pregnant?”

“What?! No!” said Robert.

“Do you have a disease that’s incurable?” he asked.

“No,” said Robert. “Although, I could probably stand a blood test…. But no. I’ve been safe all along. I’m not that stupid.”

“Right then,” said Sixsmith. “Then the only thing I could think of that would be awful is if you committed murder or slept with Sarai.”

“Oh god… No. I am guilty of a lot of things, but neither of those crimes fit.”

“Then what?”

Robert held his breath and closed his eyes. This was it.

 

~080~

 

Their kiss by the pool broke and they both stared at each other, tears streaming down their faces. “Welcome back,” said Sixsmith. “I missed you so much, Robert.”

Robert didn’t say a thing. He simply kissed his gratitude onto Sixsmith’s mouth. He held him closely and said: “I thought it might be a bit of a gamble coming up to you like that. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Sixsmith laughed in spite of himself. “You did a bit,” he admitted. “But you are certainly a sight for sore eyes.” He held him out at arm’s length and observed him. “You look practically peaky. Are you well?”

“Are you joking?” he asked, wiping tears from his face. “I’m better than I’ve been in ages!” He laughed and Sixsmith was reminded in an instant why he held on so long to the dream of Robert Frobisher. He was a little thinner, it was true, but nothing that wouldn’t fill back out in a few weeks of good eating. He also looked as though he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in a long time. Sixsmith would soon see to that as well. But despite all the flaws, here he was at last within arm’s reach. Everything he had been dreaming about for months was standing before him and Sixsmith could have shouted across the whole island in his joy.

“Come to bed,” he said.

Robert smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

~080~

 

He said it simply. He said it honestly. He told the whole truth about his time in Boston. He didn’t sugarcoat a thing. It was raw, compelling, and it moved the both of them to tears: Robert’s from regret and shame, Sixsmith’s from pity and guilt.

Sixsmith was true to his word: he hadn’t touched him in the long minutes that it took him to tell his tale. He hadn’t interrupted him either. He simply laid still and listened, focusing on every word and nuance of pronunciation, on every choked-off, stuttering syllable, realizing that this was the barest Robert’s soul had probably ever been or ever would be. Sixsmith knew that he was being handed something precious and that in the next few moments, after the sobs had subsided, after the tears had been wrung from both of them, that he and he alone would be responsible for the direction they would go in for the rest of their lives.

He had a decision to make and he had to make it now for Robert had stopped speaking and the room was so very quiet.

Sixsmith said the only thing that made sense to him. He said the only thing that he knew was both the truth and an acknowledgement of the trust Robert was placing in him. He said what needed to be said.

“I love you, you know.”

Robert’s body shook with silent sobs and Sixsmith stopped himself from reaching out to his shoulders to calm him. He didn’t need touch now; he needed truth. So… Sixsmith confessed:

“I love you and I know you were doing all you could to get back to me. You said you wrote me confessing your first crime. You said you wrote me about wanting to start fresh again. This was the answer you saw and while it’s not the most ideal of answers, it worked and I’m glad. I hope you never ever have to lower yourself again like that. I hope you can ultimately forgive yourself for what you’ve done because that’s the only thing you need worry about. I forgive you. I love you. I never want you to be apart from me again.

“Now that being said: I feel that I have a confession to make to you. I have been an utter shit to you, Robert.” Here Robert attempted to roll over to face Sixsmith, perhaps to stop his speech, but Sixsmith held his shoulder so he would be still. “No. I heard your confession; it’s time you heard mine.”

Sixsmith cleared his throat and began again. “I am a coward. You found that out the day you met me. Remember the museum? I do – in all it’s embarrassing vivid glory. You had every right to be outraged by my cowardice and there I was: knowing that you were in such fucking trouble trapped in a house, held without being able to talk to anyone, then the knife incident, then you disappeared, then you talked about delaying your return… And I sat there in my study reading all of this and did _nothing_. No. Worse than that – I tried to forget you.

“My actions and general inaction are unforgivable sins that I will constantly punish myself for for the rest of my days. You say you don’t feel you deserve me? Hell, Robert – when have I ever deserved you? You, who have done nothing at all but dare to love me? You, who managed to show me what it is to be brave in my own skin? What the hell has this coward ever done to make you proud? When have I ever proved my love for you?” Sixsmith was crying now, but Robert never moved.

“And so, I beg you to forgive me and let me try to love you as bravely as you have loved me. Let me make the no-doubt feeble attempt at reaching for your heart. I ran away to Corsica to forget you and all it did was remind me how I’ve managed to let you down. I want to make that up to you beginning tonight. Tonight and for the rest of our lives, if you’ll tolerate me for that long.”

Robert couldn’t stand any more. He turned to Sixsmith and held his face. “Forgive me if I forgive you?”

Sixsmith nodded. “And some way we’ll find out how to forgive ourselves, yeah?”

Robert nodded and smiled through his tears. He kissed him softly. “We’ll have the rest of tonight for that, I think.”

“Darling,” said Sixsmith, “We’ll have the rest of forever.”

 

~080~

 

He made him strip slowly with all the lights on. “I’ve never properly looked at the whole of you, you know,” he said by way of explanation. He really wanted to see how badly his body had suffered while he had been away; he had to see the damage he was responsible for.

Once Robert stood before him, Sixsmith could see he hadn’t been eating properly at all. His ribs were clearly visible. His face was more sallow than before, though his eyes still held their fire. He shivered in the cool of the room, yet it was warmer here than in Edinburgh by tens of degrees. “Turn for me,” he asked him quietly. The vision before him was sobering and his heart hurt. “I can see your hips,” he said.

“I’m alright,” said Robert. He knew he was a liar. He met Sixsmith’s eyes sheepishly when he completed his turnabout and gave him a weak apologetic smile.

“Are you hungry?” asked Sixsmith. Robert nodded and shrugged, a physical expression of ambivalence, but Sixsmith knew better. He remembered all too well Robert’s eating habits, the way he would wolf down anything before him because food was a scarce commodity in his life. Sixsmith never realized how true that was until he saw Robert now. He rang down for room service: soup and bread to start, poached salmon for an entrée.

Once the food arrived, Robert was sat before it wrapped in the hotel robe and ate as he always had: as if it were going to be taken away from him at any moment. Sixsmith watched him carefully and begged him not to rush. “We have all week together, my love,” he said. He brushed back Robert’s fringe and looked at him. “You’re all mine now. I’m not letting you go again.”

The plates were cleaned, stacked, and set outside for the hotel staff and Robert was all his in his bed. Sixsmith stood at the foot and stripped off in silence. Robert stared at him, a mixture of gratitude and love on his face that was beyond description. He crawled in slowly; he imagined Robert was somehow made of delicate glass or fragile crystal, the least jostle and he would crack, never to be repaired again. Robert’s grip on him dispelled that thought immediately; he was made of iron and held Sixsmith to him tightly, relentlessly. “Thank you, Sixsmith,” he kissed into his mouth. “A million thank yous. I owe you so much, my north star.”

“Shhh…” he soothed. “I’m right here. And no one is taking you away from me again.”

 

~080~

 

Entering Robert Frobisher for the second time that night was a simple affair. He wanted to be slow about it, but between the confessions and the promises to never part, Sixsmith was overwhelmed with passion and desire. He let himself go and roughly entered Robert who was still slick and open from their last congress. He paused above him, his knees over his shoulders, forehead to forehead, and panted into his mouth: “I want to take this next orgasm from you, Robert. I want to pound into you. Is that alright?”

“Please,” begged Robert. “It will be the sweetest punishment. I deserve to have you take me, fuck me, push into me. Do it, Sixsmith. Punish me. Mark me as yours forever.”

Sixsmith sucked a kiss onto that filthy mouth with a groan of ecstasy. “And then after I’m done, you can take me too.”

Robert grinned at him in that sly way he knew Sixsmith liked. “Perhaps I’ll give you a spanking?”

Sixsmith grinned wildly. “Now that’s a thought. But first-“ and he pulled out and thrust himself in, slapping his skin against Robert’s. Robert cried out but didn’t stop him and so he rammed himself home again.

The punishment brought a naughty, lascivious catharsis to them both. Despite his enthusiasm, Sixsmith was hesitant at first to treat Robert so roughly. After all, he was the weaker of the two of them and had been through so very much. But after the first couple of thrusts, the time for his over-protectiveness had passed. The first time they made love it was sensual and caring, slow and careful. This time it was about _taking_ and there was no slow burn with this. He pounded into him with abandon, treasuring every moan and cry that came from his lover. He didn’t care if they could be heard by any other hotel guests. He didn’t care if the creak of the bed or the slam of the brass headboard were keeping anyone else awake. He was chasing his orgasm, his muscles straining, his body sweating, his breathing stuttered one moment and panting the next, Robert’s name on his lips in a mantra of sweet agony.

Robert’s hands were everywhere. He couldn’t find purchase for long; he clung to Sixsmith’s shoulders as they rocked together, then he gripped his hair to pull him in for a wet kiss, then he grabbed low on his arse, feeling the thrust and push, hearing the smack and suck of the wet flesh. His need for Sixsmith was insatiable, expressed in every grunt and moan.

Sixsmith was sure he was leaving bruises on Robert, but he didn’t care. If this was the way to mark him as his own, then that’s how it would be. Robert’s mouth was doing the same to his collarbone and chest; piercing pain shot through him at intervals where his teeth had been and bitten. Sixsmith could have laughed if he wasn’t too busy buggering the fuck out of Robert. He would wear those marks with pride.

Soon the build-up was too much and Sixsmith felt himself tighten before his release. His panting became a desperate thing and Robert’s hands were at the sides of his face, pulling his focus to the warm tenderness in his eyes. “I am yours, Sixsmith. Forever.”

 

~080~

 

He began slowly. It was akin to the last morning they spent together: shoes off, fully clothed and chaste, just clinging to one another, only this time there were no clothes. There was only the two of them under the coverlet and the darkness that surrounded them, cut by swaths of moonlight.

Sixsmith stroked and petted the skin he had missed so very much, his body reminding him of how badly this sort of tenderness was needed. He painstakingly re-mapped Robert’s face under his fingertip touch, noting the flare of nostril as he traced along the shell of one ear, the small intake of breath as he touched along the delicate collarbone hollow of his neck. He placed a soothing kiss to his lips at intervals, an apology for his previous few month’s negligence, a sinner’s plea for pardon, a prodigal craving absolution.

Robert felt the same guilt, but his hands were curled in onto his own chest. His green eyes, now blown black with attraction and want, took in Sixsmith’s features greedily, but his touch was tempered by his guilt and shame. He struggled to justify Sixsmith’s tenderness and acceptance with what he knew to be crimes he’d committed and not fully confessed to. In the light of Sixsmith’s ignorance of the facts, he felt undeserving. His hands were still because of it. He closed his eyes and allowed Sixsmith to love him and tried not to weep.

“Touch me, love,” whispered Sixsmith. “I’m not angry with you. I’m just so happy to have you back. Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Yes,” came the soft answer. His eyes were still closed, his fringe masking his features. Sixsmith smoothed a hand through to see him better.

“Touch me,” came the request again, softer spoken.

Robert reached a hand out, cool against the warmth of his chest. He felt himself so filthy, so wretched, next to Sixsmith. He didn’t want to sully the man with his tainted skin. If Sixsmith had only known what he’d done… and to how many men and women… he would be appalled. He’d never be forgiven. Robert couldn’t stop the tears.

“Shh… there there, love,” said Sixsmith. He held him closely. He kissed him softly and for a long time. It was a chaste kiss, as their kisses went, but the tone of it was filled with forgiveness and a certain attempt at understanding.

Robert wept all the more at Sixsmith’s ignorance. “Oh Christ, Sixsmith,” he managed. Sixsmith kissed him more ardently, cupping his head and tilting his own, licking for permission and then plunging in when it was given. He found their cocks and took them both in his hand.

Sixsmith’s head fell against Robert’s shoulder. “I missed you so much, Robert,” he said, pressing more delicate kisses to his skin, feather-light and teasing. Robert raised his leg and pressed himself closer to his lover. He carded a tentative hand through his hair and listened to the sound of their bodies together, breath and bone and skin and warmth all moving together, one cohesive unit forever bound.

“You know I never gave up on us,” whispered Robert, “no matter what you might think. I know what I wrote you. I was low. I never expected it to go as tits up as it did. I never thought I’d-“

“Shh…” said Sixsmith, raising his head once more to kiss Robert’s mouth. “Let’s not dwell on that now. We can confess later. Right now, I just want to be grateful to be with you again. Please, Robert. Touch me like you’ve wanted to for these past few months. Just be here, with me, right here right now. Can you do that?”

“I feel I’ve done you so wrong, Sixsmith,” he said, beginning to weep again.

“You haven’t,” he replied. “The way I figure: we’ve both done the other damage enough. Time to repair. What do you say?”

Robert kissed him. “Yes.”

 

~080~

 

Robert hadn’t orgasmed. He came close to letting go, but he wanted to save that for when he was inside of Sixsmith. He had just taken the pounding of a lifetime at his hands (or rather, his hips) and his eyes held greed as they watched him panting beside him. “You can recover just as well on your stomach as you can on your back, Sixsmith. Roll over.”

Sixsmith eyed him curiously for a moment and Robert thought he was going to object. But then the crinkle between his brow smoothed and he smiled craftily. There was never so beautiful a sight as a prone Rufus Sixsmith. You could keep all your El Grecos, all your Michelangelos; you could keep all your Donatellos and Rubens and all the rest. Bin the fucking lot. All those useless tossers would completely fail to capture the exquisite beauty of Rufus Sixsmith’s bare backside in bed by moonlight. Robert took a long moment before deciding finally that this work of art must be shown reverence instead of ravage.

The tip of his tongue became a paintbrush, echoing the strokes of the master against the skin of the model. Tentative licks began at the nape of Sixsmith’s neck and traced down and away along his spine with a nibble under this shoulder blade and against that rib that caused him to start and let out little cries that thrilled Robert to no end. Here were his fantasies laid bare: to cause Sixsmith to jolt and cry out with pleasure. It was all that filled his head on the nights that he had laid with Jocasta. It was the only thing that had gotten him through the last few horrible weeks in Boston. And here he was under his body at last.

Sixsmith had shut his eyes at the first tender touch. After the first minute, he stopped trying to predict where Robert’s mouth would land next and attempted to let go and enjoy his ministrations. But then came the nips and the nibbles and he was so very ticklish – especially _there_ – and he couldn’t help but gasp and cry and laugh and oh! What a relief to finally be together again, playful and pleasing. After a good twenty minutes of all this attention, he felt himself getting hard again.

Robert didn’t miss it either. He saw Sixsmith begin to grind against the mattress as he attempted to lick behind one knee. He scraped his teeth across the sensitive skin thoughtfully before reaching a hand up to move Sixsmith’s cock downward so that the tip peeked out from underneath his balls. Then he kissed it softly. He mouthed at it. He licked it. He placed his lips to it with the barest of touches and _hummed_.

Sixsmith grabbed at the sheets, his toes curling. He had almost forgotten how talented Robert was. Almost.

 

~080~

 

There are kisses, and then there are kisses. Sixsmith took this man, his frame made frail through words yet unspoken, and placed his mouth on his as carefully as one would handle a wounded owlet. Indeed, Robert’s bones seemed as hollow as a bird’s: his fingers just as knife-tipped with talons as he gripped at Sixsmith’s body desperately clinging, his body shuddering with tears that would not stop. After all he had done, after the crimes he’d committed, he knew he didn’t deserve a man such as Sixsmith, but he wouldn’t hear it. Even from Robert’s own lips, Sixsmith wouldn’t hear a harsh word spoken against him. He was too grateful to have him back.

They spent a long hour holding one another kissing and caressing, never speaking, their eyes dancing over one another’s features in the moonlight, completely captivated by the sight of each other. Robert had taken over stroking their cocks slowly, his pressure perfect for the lengthy petting they were both administering to one another. Sixsmith smoothed a hand down Robert’s uplifted leg and ran his thumb over his knee in small circles as they kissed yet again. And then he rolled him.

Robert sat up on top of Sixsmith and looked down. Sixsmith smiled at his dark angel returned and reached over for the bedside table when he realized that he didn’t have anything - not a single condom, nothing. Robert realized the issue and giggled. He hopped off and made his way across the room as Sixsmith watched. Robert Frobisher’s body by moonlight would have left God Himself breathless. He got a few things from his small travel bag and came back to the bed, stopping at its edge to stare. “You are my heart, you know,” he said into the darkness between them.

“And you are mine,” said Sixsmith. “Please come here. I want to feel you.”

Robert snaked under the coverlet and against Sixsmith’s body, stretching his length all along him in an attempt to touch as much of his skin in one go as possible. Sixsmith sighed at the sensation of heaviness, hands carding through his hair, breath on his neck, then teeth on his earlobe, his cock trapped between their bellies, Robert’s cock against his balls. “Fuck… oh fuck, Robert,” he moaned.

“Do you want to come inside me?” asked Robert.

“Please love,” said Sixsmith.

Robert unwrapped the condom and put it on him then lay along him again. Sixsmith lubed up a hand and smoothed it into Robert’s crack, taking tender care around his hole with a probing fingertip. “How did you want to do this, sweet boy?” asked Sixsmith into the shell of Robert’s ear before gently kissing it.

“I thought I’d just sit,” said Robert. “Is that alright?”

“I think that would be perfect,” said Sixsmith breathlessly, the image of Robert above him and smiling so vivid and welcome to his heart.

“Then get me ready,” he said softly.

Slowly and carefully, Robert took in Sixsmith’s fingers, one after the next, until he was fairly gagging for it and let Sixsmith know in no uncertain terms: “Please, Sixsmith. For the love of god, please fill me up.” A minor adjustment later and Robert was slowly sinking down along Sixsmith’s hardness and it was a sight and a sensation beyond belief for them both.

As soon as Robert was seated properly he watched Sixsmith through his fringe. The man looked mesmerized and terrified, elated and desperate, no sign of rejection, no sign of the empty disdain he thought he would see; he was so happy he thought he would burst. He didn’t move for fear of losing this moment, his body straining with the denial of pleasure. He didn’t care. Here was his Sixsmith, happy beneath him, wanting him, and that was enough.

The truth could wait.

Sixsmith watched a single droplet of sweat course its way along Robert’s frame. It began along his neck, grazed his collarbone and disappeared into the shadows of his belly, reappearing with every breath as the moonlight caught his skin again and again. He wanted to wipe at it with his finger or lick it away, but he was trapped by Robert’s warm tightness and he didn’t know where to go or what to think. This was all too like his dreams of late: Robert above him and smiling in the darkness, his dark wings somewhere behind him unseen, and then a shift in the light and he would be gone. Sixsmith waited for the change, for the sound of ruffling feathers that always followed, but none came. Relief flooded his system and he wept.

His angel was home.

 

~080~

 

Body worship was something that Robert had always been good at. But when it came to Sixsmith, he wasn’t an average worshipper, he was a zealot. Every kiss placed against that man’s skin was the symbol of a burning promise, a covenant kept in his heart to never waver or doubt his love again. He had been living in a desolate place of expected rejection for so long, the floodwaters of Sixsmith’s forgiveness were a balm to his soul and re-animated his conviction that everything about Rufus Sixsmith was right and true and good and should last forever and an age beyond. He hadn’t been joking when he told Sixsmith that they were always meant to be together in this and every life. It was something about his touch, his very aspect, that told him they were two sides of the same coin. If he were truly honest with himself, he would have admitted that he knew it the moment the man called Rufus pushed between his two other friends in that club all those months ago and grabbed him. Were it anyone else on the planet that did that, he would have called for the club manager. But it wasn’t. It was Sixsmith.

It all became so clear to him after that first night, but despite that, he didn’t want to believe at first. He tried keeping it light. He tried keeping it casual. He half-expected Sixsmith to run home shame-faced in the night, leaving him to wake up to Eleanor’s pounding on the locked bedroom door alone. But he didn’t. Come the morning and there he was. And when she reacted to him, he didn’t bat an eye, didn’t utter a syllable. Robert made a mental note to thank Sixsmith for that small blessing.

The taste of Sixsmith was always pleasurable. But in this moment, in the shelter of his forgiveness and compassion, he tasted like manna. Each dip of his tongue into Sixsmith’s hole was a taste of heaven and Robert spread Sixsmith’s cheeks wider as he worked himself in, barely understanding what a gift this all was. It could so easily have been the worst moment of his life.

He licked again at the tip of Sixsmith’s cock that was still sticking out beneath his balls and thrilled when he heard his gasping cry. He was drinking from the font and all was right with the world. Soon he would be plunging himself balls-deep into Sixsmith’s tight heat and he wanted it more than he could say. A small part of him still felt he didn’t deserve any of it, but Sixsmith thought he did and that was enough.

“Please, Robert,” he heard a voice beg him. It was barely recognizable as Sixsmith’s as his face was buried in the pillows and he keened at every touch Robert made on him. The words he managed now were those of one lost in rapture. All he could do was plead for his soul to be saved by the only one who could. “Robert, please,” he begged again, and Robert’s heart was moved. He put on a condom and slicked up a hand.

“I love you, Rufus Sixsmith,” said Robert when he was two fingers in. “I love you and I will always be with you. All I ask is to be loved in return.”

“Forever,” came the choked reply. “Forever and for always. My sweet Robert. My angel.”

 

~080~

 

“What’s wrong, love?” said Robert as he sat above his lover and watched as the tears came away from his eyes.

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asked.

Robert smiled and shook his head. “No love,” he replied. “I was beginning to wonder myself a bit, but no. It’s real. I’m really here with you, and you’re with me.”

“Thank god,” he said.

Robert gazed at him for another long moment before saying: “Shall I move now, love?”

“P-please,” he said and gasped when Robert pulled off of him only to fall back against him over and over. They found a rhythm that wasn’t too fast, neither man wishing to disturb the moment of their first congress together after so very long. The night stretched before them both and it was filled with as many infinite possibilities as there were stars over Corsica.

 

**~Epilogue~**

 

There are always legends told generation after generation in tiny corners all over the world where two lovers, separated by fate, have somehow found each other again, either in this world or the next. But there is never a determination or judgment made as to who the luckier pair may be: the lovers who meet in this world and get to have a full and wonderful life here on earth and eventually die, or the ones who meet again after death and are set up high in the firmament to glitter down upon other lovers who long to be with one another.

For Robert and Sixsmith, their meeting was fated, their souls intertwined from before they could remember, and their story exists in this when, in our time, as it has existed between all those others who have come before. But whether in this life or the next, the message is the same: love endures. And five years later when Megan was seventeen and ready to head off to Uni, Robert and Rufus Frobisher-Sixsmith are clasping hands and beaming with pride as they meet up with her at her university dormitory.

“Now you’re sure you don’t need us to get anything else for you?” asked Robert, his eyes locked with hers searching for any insincerity in her answers.

“I’m fine Robert,” she said. “You needn’t worry. I have more than enough and god knows mum will be here every damn weekend-“

“Hey,” said her father, “none of that. You will not malign your mother for wanting to see you off properly.”

“I agree,” said Robert. “My mother was attentive, but ultimately rejecting. Your mum has not only stuck by you through thick and thin, little miss I-want-my-nose-pierced-and-I-want-to-date-that-boy-with-a-motorbike-and-a-criminal-record, so I’d be very grateful if I were you. It could have been worlds worse.”

“I can’t imagine being rejected by my own mother, Robert,” said Megan. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh that’s alright,” said Robert, who was over all of this sort of thing years ago. “I’m not even really sure she’s my mum anyway. We’ve decided to have her tested. You know, just to make sure she’s human.”

Megan giggled and Sixsmith shook his head. He put an arm around Robert and leaned in for a quick kiss. “You can always borrow my mum, if you want.”

“Ooh! Or mine,” Megan chirped.

“Oh dear god,” said Robert. “Between the devil and the deep blue sea. Thanks all.” His smile betrayed his teasing.

“Speaking of, your mum had the morning shift of moving your things,” said Sixsmith, “what’s left?”

Megan led them to a few stray boxes of books and heavier items. “Mum said the two men in my life could shift the more difficult things.”

“Remind me to send your ex-wife a live rattlesnake, Sixsmith,” said Robert as he lifted up one box and headed toward the stair.

“Now now,” said Megan as she watched him ascend. “There’ll be none of that. You will not malign my mother. After all, I’m lucky to have her, remember.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain in the arse?” came Robert’s response from above.

Megan looked at her father and laughed. She called up to Robert: “I get it from my father.”

Robert’s quip back was too quick to be anything but shocking: “That’s funny, I get it from your father too.”

 

~080~

 

Sixsmith massaged his husband’s shoulders soothingly in their hotel room in London. “She’s off and running, your Megan,” he said. He followed that up with a satisfied moan. “I’m so glad Sarai left us the heavy lifting.”

“Hush you,” said Sixsmith. “And it’s “our” Megan, if you please. Now, where did you want to eat tonight? It’s your treat, remember. You’re a great composer of video game titles now. You can afford to keep me in the lifestyle to which I would love to become accustomed.”

“I had to marry a gold digger,” said Robert. Sixsmith kissed his neck and made him smile. “Jesus wept, but you’re lucky you’re devastatingly handsome.”

“I love you too, angel,” said Sixsmith. “So… what’ll it be?”

“Indian take-away,” said Robert. “I don’t care where from; only let them have a peanut satay that I can eat off of your naked belly.”

“Ooh,” said Sixsmith, his lips still tracing kisses over his skin. “So an evening in trumps all. Sounds like heaven.”

Robert was quiet for a long moment, the only sound were Sixsmith’s gentle kisses. Sixsmith regarded him. He looked lost in thought.

“What is it?” said Sixsmith.

“Something just occurred to me,” said Robert. “Something I had forgotten until tonight.”

“What?”

“The night we met in the club,” said Robert.

“Yes?”

“I went there to distract myself,” he said. “I had made up my mind that if I didn’t make a go of it in London with Ayrs that I would come back to Edinburgh… and jump from the monument.”

Sixsmith froze in place. Robert turned to him, to arrest his thoughts in his stillness before they could go running off willy-nilly and make too much of something that never came to be. “But then I met you. And I wasn’t sure at first – that you were meant for me – but you persisted and then I persisted… and here we are.”

“Don’t you see?” said Robert to Sixsmith’s gobsmacked face. “Fate was doing us a favor all along. She wasn’t against us in this life; she was on our side the whole time. The bitch tricked us both and in the best way possible.” He smiled.

“Don’t ever frighten me like that again, Robert Frobisher-Sixsmith.”

“No,” said Robert quietly, realizing the damage he had done. “No I won’t. I’ll never speak of it again. I promise. Besides, there’s no need really. It’s over and done with and now I have you and you have me and we have each other and god I’m starving so please let’s just get dinner and then we’ll talk after you’ve fucked me senseless, alright?”

Sixsmith smiled at Robert’s gibbering. “Best anniversary ever.”

“I told you I’d be worth marrying,” said Robert.

“Come here you,” said Sixsmith and he kissed his husband until they were both dizzy.

 

~080~

 

There are stars that sit in the heavens above us all and in times long past, we made up stories to explain them. Because why would they only appear at night? Why were they always seemingly so distant and yet so completely alive? Where did they come from? How did they exist? Where do they go when the sun rises? What happens when one of them blinks out of existence? We did not have explanations, so we made up stories to comfort ourselves in the night.

But when we ask the same questions about ourselves, (Where do we come from? What happens when one of us blinks out of existence?) we are stuck with a tenuous nothing. Some of us rely on gods and religions to dispel our fear, but not all of us can cling to such notions and not all of us in the same way. So we look to the one thing that we know will always be there for us – even beyond the grasp of death and time - love.

We tell about the love story that lasted a lifetime. We celebrate anniversaries with joy and laughter. We look to the futures of those that have had commitment ceremonies performed with an anticipation of happiness. We welcome new loves into our lives with smiles and gentle words. We bury our dead with a portion of our love so that they may live on in our hearts. And all because of the fundamental primal acceptance that love endures. It even raises us up as gods ourselves, making us immortal by carrying it in our hearts.

So as Rufus Frobisher-Sixsmith kisses his husband after a long and joyous day, we pull away from the tender scene and rise high above a London covered in a russet sunset, beyond the skyscrapers and above all the traffic, we travel upward into the blue and crimson sky as the shadows deepen and the blue becomes black, until all that exists are the points of light that will always show us the way home.

Because… love endures.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Here Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414268) by [thecountessolivia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia)




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